FIGURES  FAMED  IN 
FICTION 


Drawn  from  the  original  sources 

by 

H.  G.  PILLSBURY,   D.D. 


RAND  McNALLY  &  COMPANY 

CHICAGO  NEW  YORK 


Copyright,  19I4 
By  Rand,  McNally  &  Company 


AN  INTRODUCTORY  NOTE 

TTO  present  with  few  but  vivid  strokes  a  number  of 
graphic  deHneations  of  noted  figures  in  fiction  is  the 
aim  of  this  series  of  character  sketches.  These  outHnes, 
brief  but  retaining  every  essential,  have  been  drawn  from 
the  best  and  most  celebrated  offerings  in  the  world  of  nov- 
els and  are  here  presented  in  the  hope  that  they  may  direct 
attention  to  the  larger  works  from  which  they  have  been 
derived  and  incite  desire  to  become  familiar  with  the 
originals.  Equally  important  is  their  mission  to  those 
overwhelmed  by  the  multiphcity  of  demands  upon  their 
time  in  this  age  of  feverish  activity.  Familiarity  with 
the  great  characters  in  story  is  not  only  desirable  but 
practically  indispensable  for  intelligent  social  intercourse, 
and,  in  general,  for  a  clearer  understanding  of  life.  There- 
fore these  outlines  of  the  famous  personnel  of  the  foremost 
novels  of  modern  times  are  designed  to  be  of  service  to 
the  general  reader  whose  acquaintance  with  the  best  in 
Uterature  must  be  won  with  the  least  possible  expenditure 
of  time  if,  indeed,  at  all. 

Throughout  the  series  it  is  the  intent  to  preserve  unim- 
paired the  moral  strength  and  the  inherent  beauty  of  the 
original  writings,  and  even  in  such  brief  presentations 
to  retain  the  breadth  of  the  author's  conception  and  a 
firm  grasp  on  scene  and  situation.  A  boon  to  be  coveted 
indeed  is  intimacy  with  the  heroes  and  heroines  who 
always  leave  an  indelible  impress  on  every  open  mind 
as  they  live  and  act  their  fascinating  roles  in  the  realm 
of  fiction. 

Acknowledgments  are  gratefully  made  to  the  Houghton 
Mifflin  Company  for  permission  to  use  "Donald  Marcy," 


6  AN   INTRODUCTORY   NOTE 

from  book  of  the  same  title  by  Elizabeth  Phelps- Ward, 
and  "Dr.  Hopkins,"  from  TJie  Minister's  Wooing  by 
Harriet  Beecher  Stowe;  to  Little,  Brown  and  Company 
for  "Marcus  Vinicius,"  from  Quo  Vadis  ^by  Henryk 
Sienkiewicz,  and  "Clement  Vaughn,"  from  The  Sage 
Brush  Parson  by  A.  B.  Ward;  and  to  Longmans, 
Green  and  Company  for  "Berault,"  from  Under  the  Red 

Robe  by  Stanley  Weyman. 

H.  G.  P. 

Morris,  Illinois,  March  is,  191 4 


THE   CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Jean  Valjean 9 

From  Les  MiseraUes,  by  Victor  Hugo 

John  Halifax 40 

From  John  Halifax,  Gentleman,  by  Dinah  Maria  Mulock 
Craik 

Tom  Brown       ...  67 

From   Tom  Brown's  School  Days,  by  Thomas  Hughes 

Donovan 97 

From  Donovan,  by  Ada  Ellen  Bayley 

Marcus  Vinicius 123 

From  Quo  Vadis,  by  Henryk  Sienkiewicz 

Robert  Falconer       ....  ....     151 

From  Robert  Falconer,  by  George  Macdonald 

Donald  Marcy 174 

From  Donald  Marcy,  by  Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps- Ward 

Sheila  Mackenzie 202 

From  A  Princess  of  Thule,  by  William  Black 

Sydney  Carton 226 

From  A  Tale  of  Two  Cities,  by  Charles  Dickens 

Clement  Vaughn 252 

From  The  Sage  Brush  Parson,  by  A.  B.  Ward 

Berault 284 

From  Under  the  Red  Robe,  by  Stanley  Weyman 

Lorna  Doone 307 

From  Lorna  Doone,  by  R.  D.  Blackmore 

7 


8  THE  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Angela  Messenger 332 

From  All  Sorts  and  Conditions  of  Men,  by  Sir  Walter  Besant 

Dr.  Hopkins 363 

From  The  Minister's  Wooing,  by  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe 

Mr.  Crupp  of  Barton 384 

From  The  Barton  Experiment,  by  John  Habberton 


JEAN  VALJEAN 

T  TE  was  a  French  peasant,  who  for  burglary  and 
-^  -*-  theft — the  theft  of  a  loaf  of  bread — was 
sentenced  to  the  galleys  at  Toulon  for  a  period  of  five 
years.  While  the  bolt  of  the  iron  collar  was  being 
riveted  behind  his  head,  the  strong  youth  could  not 
restrain  his  tears.  His  convict  life — the  chain-gang, 
the  hard  labor,  the  burning  sun  of  the  galleys,  the 
plank  bed  of  his  cell,  the  galley-sergeant's  cudgel  for  a 
look  or  a  word — this  was  severe  enough,  but  it  was 
more;  it  was  oblivion.  The  world  was  shut  out;  he 
was  lost  to  life;  his  very  name  was  effaced — he  was 
simply  number  60 1.  His  incarceration  was  a  living 
death.  It  was  a  burial  alive.  Several  unsuccessful 
attempts  at  escape  added  to  the  duration  of  his 
servitude,  until  at  his  release  the  period  had  been 
nineteen  years. 

The  result  in  him  was  a  profound,  unreasoning 
sense  of  injustice,  of  burning  wrongs.  He  cherished 
a  bitterness  of  soul,  a  hatred  of  law,  of  society,  of 
God.  He  was  a  man  transformed  little  by  little  by 
those  awful  nineteen  years  into  something  more 
animal  than  human.  It  is  not  the  first  time  that 
the  ancient  penal  code  of  France  has  wrought  in 
the  interest  of  damnation.  Unfortunate  in  his 
youth,  he  had  never  known  human  love.  For 
nineteen  years  at  least  he  had  not  shed  a  tear;  and 
now,  at  the  age  of  forty-four,  with  the  instincts  of 


lo         FIGURES   FAMED   IN  FICTION 

hatred  and  savagery  abnormally  alive  within  him, 
he  found  himself  set  free  only  to  be  spurned  or 
avoided  by  men. 

He  was  a  man  of  forbidding  aspect;  thickset  in 
physique,  a  strong,  determined  face,  straggling 
beard,  closely  cropped  hair,  a  scowl  upon  his  brow, 
his  coarse  clothing  patched  and  torn,  iron-shod 
shoes  on  his  stockingless  feet,  and  an  enormous 
knotty  stick  in  his  hand.  The  children  in  the 
street  fled  at  his  approach. 

When  set  at  liberty  he  was  furnished  with  the 
yellow  passport  which  he  must  show  to  the  author- 
ities of  every  town.  Described  in  it  as  "a  very 
dangerous  man,"  it  sufficed  to  close  the  public 
houses  against  him.  Arriving  at  a  certain  village 
as  evening  came  on,  he  was  repulsed  again  and 
again.    His  arrival  was  noised  abroad. 

"Something  to  eat,  for  the  love  of  God,  if  I  pay!" 
he  implored  a  peasant. 

The  latter  fixed  his  eyes  upon  him,  exclaiming, 
"What!  are  you  the  man?  Something  to  eat!  A  shot 
from  my  gun!" 

He  was  directed  at  length  to  the  house  of  the 
Bishop,  and  certainly  with  the  best  of  reason.  This 
man  was  known  far  and  near  for  his  rare  goodness 
of  heart,  his  utter  self-abnegation,  his  devotion  in 
work  for  humanity.  Many  are  the  stories  told  of 
his  unselfishness.  He  received  from  the  state  a 
salary  of  fifteen  thousand  livres;  he  lived  on  one 
thousand  and  gave  away  the  rest.  The  small  hos- 
pital   was    overcrowded;    he    gave    up    the    large 


THE  STRUGGLE  OF  JEAN  VALJEAN    ii 

episcopal  residence  for  that  use,  and  himself  lived  in 
the  hospital.  He  did  good  to  all  men;  he  was 
afraid  of  no  man.  Unearthly  in  the  goodness  of  his 
life,  he  was  held  in  the  utmost  love  and  veneration. 

The  ex-convict  knocked  at  the  good  Bishop's 
door  and  stood  before  him.  "See  here!"  said  he 
abruptly.  "My  name  is  Jean  Valjean.  I  am  a  con- 
vict from  the  galleys;  I  was  nineteen  years  there. 
I  have  traveled  all  day  on  foot  and  have  had  nothing 
to  eat.  At  the  public  inns  they  said  'Be  off ! '  because 
of  my  yellow  passport.  I  am  very  weary  and  very 
hungry.  But,  do  you  understand?  I  come  from 
the  galleys.  My  passport  says  I  am  a  very  danger- 
ous man.   There !   Now  you,  too,  will  turn  me  away ! " 

"Sit  down,  monsieur,  and  warm  yourself.  We 
shall  sup  in  a  few  moments,  and  after  that  your  bed 
will  be  ready,"  was  the  Bishop's  gentle  reply. 

The  man's  hard  face  bore  the  imprint  of  stupe- 
faction ;  he  began  stammering  like  a  crazy  man. 

"What!  You  will  keep  me?  You  do  not  say 
'Get  out  of  here,  you  dog'?  I  have  told  you  who 
I  am,  and  yet  you  receive  me  into  your  house?" 

"My  friend,  this  is  not  my  house;  it  is  the  house 
of  Jesus  Christ.  It  belongs  to  you  as  well  as  to  me. 
What  need  had  I  to  know  your  name?  Before  you 
told  me,  you  had  one  which  I  knew." 

"What?     You  knew  what  I  was  called?" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  Bishop,  "you  are  called  my 
brother." 

The  look  of  astonishment  on  the  coarse,  hard  face 
deepened.   Bewilderment,  love,  gratitude,  incredulity 


12         FIGURES   FAMED   IN  FICTION 

mingled  in  its  expression.  He  ate  as  one  who 
is  starving,  and  afterward  rested  upon  a  comfortable 
bed  for  the  first  time  in  nineteen  years.  He  woke 
soon  after  midnight.  The  bed  was  unnaturally  soft ; 
therefore  he  woke.  His  thoughts  were  confused. 
He  had  looked  into  heaven  for  a  moment,  and  was 
blinded  by  the  sudden  light.  Human  love  and  good- 
ness were  utterly  new  in  his  life;  they  did  not  seem 
real.  But  there  was  one  thing  that  was  real, — the 
cruelties  he  had  suffered,  the  injustice  of  law,  the 
bitterness  of  his  soul.  He  had  been  robbed  by 
society;  he  owed  reprisal.  The  beast  in  him  was 
rampant.  All  this  was  real;  the  angelic  goodness 
which  had  just  flashed  upon  him  was  but  a  dream 
to  him.  And  his  mind  dwelt  upon  this  one  thing: 
he  had  been  robbed  by  society ;  he  would  rob  society 
in  return.  Urged  by  this  blind,  brute  instinct,  he 
was  actually  led  to  rob  his  benefactor.  Seizing  a 
small  basket  of  silverware,  he  fled  through  the 
darkness. 

When,  arrested  some  hours  later,  he  was  brought 
back  by  three  gendarmes,  "Ah!  here  you  are!" 
exclaimed  the  Bishop.  "I  am  glad  to  see  you. 
But  how  is  this  ?  You  did  not  take  the  candlesticks 
which  I  gave  you.  I  gave  you  them  as  I  did  the 
other  silver." 

Jean  Valjean  stared  at  the  venerable  Bishop  with 
an  expression  of  which  no  human  tongue  can  render 
any  account. 

"So,  then,"  said  the  gendarme,  "what  this  man 
said  was  true.    We  stopped  him ;  he  had  this  silver — ' ' 


THE   STRUGGLE   OF  JEAN    VALJEAN  13 

"And  he  told  you  I  had  given  it  to  him.  I  see 
how  it  stands.     It  is  all  a  mistake,  you  see." 

As  the  officer  released  him  the  Bishop  brought 
him  the  silver  candlesticks. 

"My  friend,  before  you  go,  here  are  your  candle- 
sticks; do  not  forget  them."  Then,  drawing  near 
to  him,  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "Do  not  forget,  never 
forget,  that  you  have  promised  to  use  this  money 
in  becoming  an  honest  man." 

The  poor  man  could  not  remember  having  prom- 
ised anything. 

The  Bishop  resumed:  "Jean  Valjean,  my  brother, 
you  no  longer  belong  to  evil  but  to  good.  It  is  your 
soul  that  I  buy  from  you.  I  withdraw  it  from  black 
thoughts  and  the  spirit  of  perdition,  and  I  give  it  to 
God.     Go  in  peace." 

As  Valjean  went  on  his  way  he  was  the  prey  of  a 
throng  of  novel  sensations.  Unutterable  thoughts 
assembled  within  him.  He  had  looked  for  one  mo- 
ment through  an  open  door  into  the  realm  of  virtue, 
and  even  now  almost  doubted  what  he  saw.  Travel- 
ing far  beyond  the  town,  he  sat  down  beside  a  bush 
by  the  wayside.  A  lad  of  ten  years  passed  along, 
merrily  singing  and  tossing  some  coins  and  catching 
them.  One  of  them — a  large  one — rolled  near  Val- 
jean as  he  sat  there,  and,  more  from  the  instinct  of 
his  old  life  than  anything  else,  he  set  his  foot  upon 
it.   The  lad  hunted  for  it,  and  finally  suspected  him. 

"Give  me  back  my  money!"  said  he. 

Valjean  looked  at  him  in  a  dazed  way.  "What  is 
your  name?"  said  he. 


14         FIGURES  FAMED   IN   FICTION 

"Gervais  is  my  name.  Will  you  give  me  back 
my  money?" 

The  man  stared  at  him  as  if  dreaming.  Finally 
rousing  himself,  "Off  with  you ! "  he  cried  in  a  terrible 
voice,  and  the  scared  child  turned  and  ran.  Then 
the  sun  set  and  the  darkness  came,  and  a  deeper 
darkness  came  over  the  man's  soul. 

Why  had  he  robbed  Gervais?  He  could  not  tell. 
Let  us  say  it  was  not  he,  but  the  instinct  that  wrought 
of  itself,  the  result  of  his  terrible  life.  He  picked 
up  the  coin  in  a  dazed  way,  and  a  great  revulsion  of 
feeling  came  over  him  as  he  realized  what  he  had 
done.  Then  he  sought  to  overtake  the  lad,  fran- 
tically calling  out  to  him,  "Gervais!  Gervais! 
Little  Gervais!"  but  all  in  vain.  Finally,  as  he  sank 
exhausted,  some  thought  of  what  he  was  came  over 
his  dull  mind.  "Oh,  I  am  indeed  a  wretch!"  he 
cried,  and  burst  into  weeping  for  the  first  time  in 
nineteen  years. 

He  seemed  to  see  himself  there  before  him,  the 
repulsive  galley  convict,  cudgel  in  hand,  with  his 
evil  face  and  with  stolen  objects  about  him.  He 
almost  asked  himself  who  that  man  was.  He  was 
hideous.  Then  a  bright  light  like  a  torch  seemed  to 
shine  athwart  this  hallucination,  and  as  he  gazed 
and  gazed,  the  torch  seemed  to  be  the  holy  man,  the 
Bishop.  And  there,  as  his  revery  went  on,  were  the 
two  forms  before  him — that  hideous  Jean  Valjean 
and  the  other  blessed,  great  soul.  And  the  former 
seemed  to  fade,  while  the  latter  increased  in  glory. 
By  and  by  the  cursed  Jean  Valjean  seemed  to  vanish 


THE  STRUGGLE  OF  JEAN  VALJEAN    15 

and  the  glory  only  remained ;  and  he  seemed  to  hear 
again  the  words  of  the  holy  man:  "Jean  Valjean, 
my  brother,  you  no  longer  belong  to  evil  but  to  good. 
It  is  your  soul  that  I  buy  from  you.  I  withdraw 
it  from  black  thoughts  and  the  spirit  of  perdition, 
and  I  give  it  to  God." 

He  sobbed  and  wept  for  a  long,  long  time  as 
if  his  heart  would  break.  And  as  he  wept,  his 
life  stood  out  before  him  under  the  holy  radiance 
of  the  Bishop's  soul.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he 
beheld  Satan  by  the  light  of  paradise.  It  was 
the  supreme  crisis  of  his  life.  We  know  nothing 
more  about  it  except  that  he  was,  from  that 
time  forth,  in  the  spirit  that  possessed  him,  a  totally 
different  man. 

The  provincial  town  of  sur  M —  had  long  possessed 
an  industry  which  was  more  or  less  profitable,  the 
imitation  of  English  jet.  Trinkets  in  black  glass — 
pins,  bracelets,  and  the  like — were  manufactured 
even  as  they  were  in  Germany.  But  the  industry 
languished  on  account  of  the  expense  of  the  raw 
material  as  well  as  of  the  process. 

Eight  years  have  passed  in  the  course  of  our  story. 
A  great  revolution  has  taken  place  in  the  industry 
of  this  manufacturing  town.  A  stranger  had  quietly 
established  himself  there,  and,  by  one  or  two  simple 
changes  in  the  process  of  manufacture,  had  made 
it  possible  to  compete  with  Germany,  and  a  wonder- 
ful industrial  prosperity  was  the  result. 

This  stranger,  on  his  arrival  at  sur  M — ,  had  only 


i6         FIGURES   FAMED   IN  FICTION 

the  garments,  the  appearance,  and  the  language  of  a 
workingman.  He  was  a  kindly,  quiet  man  with  a 
preoccupied  air,  and  was  known  as  Father  Madeleine. 
His  own  share  in  this  great  and  general  prosperity 
made  him  rich,  and  yet  he  lived  a  quiet  life  and 
seemed  to  delight  in  deeds  of  charity  whenever  the 
opportunity  offered.  Besides  establishing  a  hospital 
and  a  school  and  a  dispensary,  he  personally  sought 
out  the  needy  and  the  sorrowing.  In  his  quiet 
rooms  he  had  a  shelf  of  useful  books.  In  proportion 
as  leisure  came  to  him  with  fortune  he  seemed  to 
take  advantage  of  it  to  cultivate  his  mind.  It  was 
observ^ed  that  his  language  had  grown  more  correct, 
his  peasant  vocabulary  gradually  disappearing. 
The  entire  town  held  him  in  high  esteem,  not  only 
for  his  goodness  but  as  the  author  of  its  prosperity. 
Honors  were  offered  him  but  were  refused.  At 
length  he  was  prevailed  upon  to  accept  the  mayor- 
alty of  sur  M  — ,  and  there  is  small  need  to  say  that 
he  used  his  office  well.  In  his  room  might  be  seen, 
among  other  simple  furniture,  two  silver  candle- 
sticks; they  were  never  used,  but  were  kept  with 
the  utmost  care.  You  and  I  have  seen  them  be- 
fore. One  day  the  announcement  appeared  in  the 
provincial  journal  of  the  death  of  the  Bishop  of 
D — ,  and  the  singular  fact  was  noted  that  Father 
Madeleine  went  into  mourning. 

As  he  went  about  here  and  there,  a  certain  man 
followed  him  with  an  evil  eye.  "Where  have  I 
seen  that  man?"  said  he.  "Somewhere.  Good 
God !    Was  it  at  Toulon  ? "     This  man  of  the  evil  eye 


THE  STRUGGLE  OF  JEAN  VALJEAN  17 

was  one  of  the  inspectors  of  the  police,  and  his  name 
was  Javert. 

Let  us  say  of  him  that  he  was  not  an  evil  man, 
at  least  not  a  corrupt  man.  He  was  compounded  of 
watchfulness,  sternness,  and  conscience.  He  was  the 
very  incarnation  of  law.  It  was  his  business  to  lay 
hands  on  the  criminal,  and  he  knew  no  other  busi- 
ness. His  face  was  more  wolfish  than  human.  His 
hair  nearly  covered  his  eyebrows;  his  whiskers  were 
black  and  bristling.  When  he  smiled — which  was 
seldom — he  reminded  one  of  a  tiger;  he  showed  his 
teeth  and  his  gums.  As  for  his  glance,  it  was  like  a 
gimlet,  cold  and  piercing.  He  would  have  appre- 
hended his  own  father,  nay,  even  himself,  had  that 
been  called  for. 

He  entered  the  mayor's  office  one  day.  "Your 
honor,"  said  he,  "it  is  my  duty  to  report  to  you  that 
a  great  wrong  has  been  committed,  and  to  request 
you  to  instigate  the  authorities  to  dismiss  me  from 
the  service." 

The  mayor  was  naturally  astonished.  "Mon- 
sieur Javert,"  said  he,  "may  I  ask  the  reason?" 

"Your  honor,  I  had  some  little  difference  with  you, 
as  you  will  remember,  six  weeks  ago.  In  a  fit  of 
passion  I  informed  against  you.  That  was  the 
wrong.  Suspicion  is  permitted  to  the  servants  of 
justice,  but  personal  enmity,  never!  I  am  unfit  to 
be  inspector  of  police." 

Father  Madeleine  was  pale  and  calm.  "Informed 
against  me,  you  say?" 

"Informed  against  you  as  an  ex-convict.  I 
3 


1 8         FIGURES  FAMED   IN  FICTION 

thought  it  was  so  for  a  long  time.  There  was  a 
certain  resemblance;  you  drag  your  leg  a  little,  for 
one  thing.  At  all  events,  I  took  you  for  a  certain 
Jean  Valjean." 

"A  certain —     What  did  you  say  the  name  was?" 

"Jean  Valjean.  He  was  a  convict  whom  I  used 
to  see  years  ago  in  the  galleys  at  Toulon.  After  his 
release  this  man  robbed  a  lad  on  the  public  highway. 
The  penalty  for  this  offense  is — for  an  ex-convict — 
the  galleys  for  life.  This  Valjean  disappeared  eight 
years  ago,  and  the  police  could  not  find  him.  Well, 
when  I  informed  against  you  they  told  me  I  was  mad, 
for  the  real  Jean  Valjean  had  just  been  found." 

Father  Madeleine  could  hardly  control  himself. 
He  said  nothing. 

"It  is  this  way,  your  honor.  A  wretched  fellow, 
one  Champmathieu,  was  arrested  for  theft  and  has 
been  completely  identified  as  Jean  Valjean.  The 
old  scamp  denies  it,  of  course,  but  that  will  avail 
nothing.  The  case  comes  on  at  the  assizes  at  Arras 
to-morrow."  And  the  police  inspector  left  the 
mayor  to  reflections  more  strange  and  more  itumul- 
tuous  than  he  could  possibly  have  imagined. 

Now  you  and  I  have  divined  already  that  Father 
Madeleine  was  no  other  than  Jean  Valjean.  We 
have  some  idea  of  what  his  moral  effort  must  have 
been  during  these  recent  years.  He  had  found 
goodness  to  be  a  reality,  for  he  had  known  it  in  his 
life.  He  had  lived  in  holiness  and  happiness;  he 
had  effaced  his  name;  he  thanked  God  that  that 
awful  past  was  buried  forever. 


THE  STRUGGLE  OF  JEAN  VALJEAN  19 

But  what  was  this?  The  ghost  of  his  past  was 
walking  the  earth  again!  Upon  hearing  Javert's 
story  he  confusedly  saw  the  whole  tragic  drama 
reopen.  He  dimly  knew  that  awful  things  were 
coming,  and,  bending  like  an  oak  at  the  approach  of 
a  storm,  he  felt  the  black  clouds  charged  with  thun- 
ders and  lightnings  descending  upon  his  head. 

But  why  such  apprehensions?  Was  he  not  safe? 
Was  not  the  hated  name  now  fastened  upon  another 
man?  Where  was  the  occasion  for  any  trouble? 
Ah!  it  lay  in  the  fact  of  conscience,  that  vicegerent 
of  God  in  the  soul  of  man,  that  solemn  thing 
which  every  man  bears  within  himself  and  which  he 
measures  with  despair  against  the  passions  of  his 
being  and  the  actions  of  his  life.  There  is  a  spectacle 
more  grand  than  the  sea;  it  is  heaven.  There  is  a 
spectacle  more  grand  than  heaven;  it  is  the  inmost 
recesses  of  the  human  soul. 

That  night  Valjean  shut  himself  up  in  his  room, 
and  there  was  the  battle  of  the  giants  within  him. 
At  the  very  first  glance  of  his  abnormally  quickened 
sense  he  saw  what  he  might  and  ought  to  do :  namely, 
appear  at  the  court,  declare  the  truth,  deliver  the 
innocent  from  prison,  and  deliberately  take  his  place. 
Adieu,  then,  to  his  useful  life,  to  the  enterprises 
which  depended  upon  him,  to  the  happiness  which 
he  had  begun  to  know.  And  then — the  living  tomb 
at  Toulon ;  the  galleys  for  life ! 

But  he  recoiled.  He  saw  the  other  side  of  the 
question.  He  saw  that  he  was  master  of  the  situa- 
tion. Verily  Providence  had  placed  the  key  in  his 
2 


20         FIGURES   FAMED   IN  FICTION 

hands.  Surely  God  was  good!  Had  he  the  righl  to 
disarrange  His  plans?  What  impertinence!  Well, 
then,  let  the  good  God  do  as  He  likes !  Let  things 
take  their  course;  all  will  be  well. 

But  yet  again  there  was  revulsion.  Heavens  and 
earth!  It  was  horrible!  It  was  murderous!  He 
would  thus  be  the  means  of  inflicting  upon  an  inno- 
cent man  that  frightful  living  death,  the  galleys. 
Great  God!  it  was  infamous!  To  let  things  take 
their  course,  to  allow  this  error  of  fate  and  of  men 
to  be  carried  out,  to  lend  himself  to  it  through  his 
silence — this  was  hypocritical  baseness  in  the  last 
degree.  It  was  a  cowardly,  abject,  hideous  crime. 
And,  more  than  all,  it  was  disobedience  to  his  con- 
science ;  to  the  voice  of  God  in  his  soul. 

Well,  then,  he  must  appear  at  the  court,  declare 
himself,  and  save  the  innocent.  He  saw  his  duty 
clearly  written  in  luminous  letters.  But  he  recoiled 
yet  again.  What  of  those  dependent  upon  the  busi- 
ness he  had  created?  "I  must  think  of  others," 
said  he,  "of  the  larger  question.  What  about  my 
duty  to  the  hundreds  who  will  suffer  if  I  disappear? 
And  this  old  Champmathieu — he  is  a  thief  at  best, 
a  wretch  doubtless.  Suppose  I  remain  here.  In  ten 
years  I  shall  have  made  ten  millions,  and  scattered 
them  through  a  thousand  homes.  Was  I  not  selfish 
to  forget  all  this?  Ah!  now  I  am  on  the  right  road. 
I  am  Madeleine,  and  Madeleine  I  remain.  Woe  to 
the  man  who  happens  to  be  Jean  Valjean." 

And  he  began  to  act  as  if  this  were  his  final  decision. 
He  must  destroy  all  evidence  of  his  former  life. 


THE  STRUGGLE    OF  JEAN  VALJEAN  21 

He  had  preserved  his  old  convict  clothing,  his  knap- 
sack, his  huge  thorn  cudgel ;  he  threw  them  into  the 
fire.  The  Bishop's  candlesticks  alone  remained. 
He  seized  them  also,  when  it  seemed  to  him  he  heard 
a  voice  within  him  saying,  "Jean  Valjean!  Yes, 
that  is  it !  Finish !  Destroy  this  souvenir ;  forget  the 
Bishop;  forget  everything!  Let  an  innocent  man 
bear  your  name  in  ignominy  and  drag  your  chain 
in  the  galleys!  Ah,  wretch!  There  will  be  around 
you  many  voices  which  will  sound  your  praises,  and 
one  voice  which  no  one  but  yourself  will  hear,  but 
which  will  curse  you  in  the  dark!" 

The  perspiration  streamed  from  his  brow.  He 
fixed  a  haggard  eye  on  the  candlesticks. 

"Is  there  any  one  here?"  he  exclaimed.  Then 
with  a  strange  laugh,  "How  stupid  I  am!  There 
can  be  no  one." 

There  was  some  one.  But  the  Person  who  was  there 
was  of  those  that  the  human  eye  cannot  see. 

All  night  long  the  agony  went  on.  Should  he 
continue  his  beneficent  life,  dispensing  happiness 
among  men,  or,  good  God!  instead  of  that  the 
convict  gang,  the  chain  on  his  ankle,  the  cell,  the 
plank  bed — all  those  horrors  which  he  knew  so 
well !  Should  he  remain  in  paradise,  and  become  a 
demon?  Should  he  return  to  hell,  and  become  an 
angel?  And  when  morning  dawned  on  the  conflict 
he  was  no  further  advanced  than  at  the  beginning. 
Thus  did  this  unhappy  soul  struggle  in  its  anguish. 
Eighteen  hundred  years  before,  the  Mysterious 
Being  in  whom  are  summed  up  all  the  sanctities 


22         FIGURES   FAMED   IN  FICTION 

and  all  the  sufferings  of  humanity  had  also — for  a 
time,  while  the  olive  trees  quivered  in  the  wild  wind 
of  the  Infinite  —  thrust  aside  the  terrible  cup  which 
appeared  to  him  dripping  with  darkness  and  over- 
flowing w4th  shadows,  but  in  its  depths  all  studded 
with  stars! 

The  result  of  the  long  struggle  was  that  he  made 
the  day's  journey  to  Arras  where  the  court  was 
sitting.  Still  undecided,  he  resolved  dully  and 
blindly  that  at  least  he  would  go.  Arrived  in  the 
courtroom,  he  listened  for  an  hour  to  the  evidence 
and  the  arguments,  and  listened  in  torture.  Champ- 
mat  hieu  was  proved  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  jury 
to  be  the  ex-convict.  Finally  Father  Madeleine 
arose  and  addressed  the  court : 

"Monsieur  President,  I  have  the  honor  to  request 
you  to  release  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  and  to  arrest 
me  upon  the  indictment  before  the  court.  Mon- 
sieur President,  I  am  Jean  Valjean." 

There  was  silence  like  that  of  the  grave.  Father 
Madeleine  stood  before  them,  and  the  officials,  who 
knew  him  well,  saw  that  during  the  past  hour  his 
hair  had  turned  perfectly  white. 

"Chenildieu,"  said  he  to  a  convict  who  had  been 
brought  from  the  galleys  as  a  witness,  and  who  had 
identified  the  prisoner  as  Jean  Valjean,  "do  you 
not  know  me?  Do  you  remember  the  knitted  sus- 
penders with  a  checked  pattern  which  you  wore  in 
the  galleys?  Let  me  tell  you  also  that  you  have 
on  your  left  arm,  branded  in  blue  powder,  the  date 
March   i,   1815.     Will  you  pull  up  your  sleeve?" 


THE  STRUGGLE   OF  JEAN  VALJEAN    23 

He  did  so,  and  a  gendarme  held  a  light  close  to  it. 
There  was  the  date!  The  unhappy  man  smiled  in 
a  way  which  went  to  the  hearts  of  those  who  beheld, 
a  smile  in  which  despair  and  triumph  were  mingled. 

"You  see  plainly,"  he  said,  "that  I  am  Jean 
Valjean.  I  shall  withdraw,  since  you  do  not  arrest 
me  here.  I  have  many  things  to  do.  The  District 
Attorney  knows  where  I  am  to  be  found,  and  can 
have  me  arrested  at  any  time." 

As  he  passed  out  not  an  arm  was  raised  to  hinder 
him.  At  that  moment  there  was  about  him  that 
divine  something  which  causes  people  to  stand  aside 
and  make  way  for  a  man.  It  had  been  almost  a 
drawn  battle ;  in  it  the  man  had  been  sadly  bruised 
and  torn,  but  conscience  was  victor. 

The  court,  after  prolonged  consultation,  decided 
that  justice  must  take  its  course ;  and  police  inspector 
Javert,  in  accordance  with  its  instructions,  duly 
presented  himself  at  the  rooms  of  Father  Madeleine. 
His  grim,  terrible  smile,  the  baleful  light  in  his  eye  — 
it  was  the  visage  of  a  demon  who  has  just  found  the 
damned  soul  he  has  been  seeking. 

In  his  eagerness  he  had  come  sooner  than  he  was 
desired,  for  Valjean  had  one  matter  to  attend  to  that 
required  time,  to  say  nothing  of  secrecy.  Still  he 
quietly  went  with  the  officer;  and  the  same  night 
broke  with  his  iron  strength  a  bar  of  the  prison 
window  and  escaped.  How  he  managed  to  get 
through  the  big  gates  into  the  courtyard  no  one 
ever  knew.  He  came  to  his  rooms,  arranged  cer- 
tain matters,  and  set  out  for  Paris  in  disguise.     One 


24         FIGURES   FAMED   IN  FICTION 

week  later  he  was  arrested  again.  But  previous  to 
that  time  he  succeeded  in  withdrawing  his  deposit 
with  his  Paris  banker — a  sum  of  600,000  francs — 
and  burying  it  by  night  in  the  lonely  forest  of 
Montfermeil.  This  sum,  in  banknotes,  inclosed 
in  a  box,  he  placed  in  a  coffer  filled  with  chestnut 
shavings,  and  with  it  his  other  treasure,  the  Bishop's 
candlesticks.  He  had  just  completed  this  disposal 
of  his  fortune  when  he  was  rearrested  and  com- 
mitted to  the  galleys. 

Not  long  before  this  great  crisis  in  his  life  he  had 
become  aware  of  the  sad  case  of  a  poor  woman  who 
had  been  obliged  to  leave  her  child  some  years  before 
in  the  care  of  strangers  in  order  to  obtain  work  to 
support  it  and  herself.  He  had  learned  of  her 
when  it  was  too  late  to  be  of  any  material  aid,  and 
she  died  before  her  child  could  be  sent  for.  He  felt 
it  to  be  his  duty  to  care  for  this  child ;  it  was  almost 
in  the  form  of  a  solemn  promise  made  to  the  dead. 
With  this  motive  present  to  his  mind,  considering 
also  his  sharpened  sense  and  his  better  knowledge 
of  the  world,  not  to  speak  of  his  giant  strength,  one 
might  well  expect  his  escape,  either  soon  or  late. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  five  months  after  his  commit- 
ment the  Toulon  newspaper  contained  these  lines : 

"Yesterday  a  convict  belonging  to  the  detach- 
ment on  board  the  Orion,  on  his  return  from 
rendering  assistance  to  a  sailor  suspended  in  the 
rigging,  fell  into  the  sea  and  was  drowned.  The 
body  has  not  yet  been  found.  It  is  supposed  that 
it  is  entangled  among  the  piles  of  the  Arsenal  Point. 


THE   STRUGGLE   OF  JEAN  VALJEAN   25 

The  man  was  committed  under  the  number  9430, 
and  his  name  was  Jean  Valjean." 

Thirty  days  later  the  night  coach  from  Paris  for 
Lagny  had  as  an  outside  passenger  a  man  with  white 
hair,  in  poor  and  scanty  clothing,  with  a  bundle  and 
a  cudgel.  He  said  little,  replying  to  all  questions 
in  monosyllables.  Leaving  the  coach  at  Chelles,  he 
did  not  enter  the  inn,  avoided  the  principal  streets, 
and  took  a  cross-road  for  Montfermeil.  Had  one 
followed  him,  one  might  have  seen  him  taking  long 
strides  through  the  depths  of  the  forest  as  one  who 
was  well  acquainted  with  its  mazes.  He  finally 
paused,  examined  certain  waymarks,  apparently 
satisfied  himself  that  the  soil  had  not  been  recently 
disturbed,  and  returned  as  he  had  come. 

One  idea  possessed  him  now;  it  was  to  secure 
and  provide  for  the  child  whose  poor  mother  had 
died  six  months  before.  From  information  given  by 
the  mother  he  knew  she  must  be  about  eight  years 
of  age.  It  was,  indeed,  high  time  that  he  came  to 
the  rescue.  The  poor  waif  had  known  nothing  but 
unkindness  and  hardship.  Cruelties  past  belief 
had  been  her  lot  during  all  her  childhood,  and  for 
the  kind  old  man  who  took  her  from  curses  and 
blows  and  burdens  and  cold  and  hunger  her  love 
amounted  almost  to  worship.  As  she  walked  away 
with  her  little  hand  in  his,  leaving  behind  her  the 
curses  and  the  blows  and  the  hunger,  her  child  heart 
was  full.  She  felt  something  as  though  she  were 
beside  the  good  God. 

He  took  humble  lodgings  in  the  outskirts  of  Paris ; 


26         FIGURES  FAMED   IN  FICTION 

and  their  life,  for  a  time  quiet  and  uneventful,  was, 
for  both  of  them,  a  foretaste  of  heaven.  Jean 
Valjcan  had  never  loved  anything;  he  had  never 
been  lover,  husband,  or  father.  When  he  had  deliv- 
ered little  Cosette  and  now  possessed  her,  all  the 
dormant  affection  within  him  awoke  and  rushed 
toward  the  little  child.  The  singular  experience  of  a 
starved  heart  which,  thus  late,  begins  to  love,  is  a 
very  obscure  and  a  very  sweet  thing.  The  love  that 
might  have  been,  was  transformed.  His  years  were 
five  and  fifty,  and  Cosette  was  eight;  and  so  this 
love  flowed  together  into  a  sort  of  ineffable  light: 
Cosette  had  never  known  love,  and  so  the  union  of 
their  two  hearts  was  complete.  Her  instinct  sought 
a  father  as  his  instinct  sought  a  child;  and  so  he 
became  her  father  after  a  sort  of  celestial  fashion. 
He  taught  her  to  read,  and  it  gave  him  a  rare  pleasure. 
At  such  times  the  ex-convict  would  smile  with  the 
pensive  smile  of  the  angels.  And  then  he  talked 
of  her  mother,  and  he  made  her  pray.  Who  knows 
whether  Jean  Valjean  had  not  been  on  the  eve  of 
growing  discouraged  and  of  falling  once  more? 
But  now  he  loved,  and  grew  strong  again.  Surely 
he  needed  the  child  as  much  as  she  needed  him. 
Oh,  divine  mystery  of  the  balances  of  destiny! 

He  was  prudent  enough  never  to  go  out  by  day. 
The  two  walked  deserted  streets  in  the  evening. 
After  a  time  his  suspicions  v/ere  aroused.  A  poor 
beggar  to  whom  he  gave  alms  gave  him  a  strange 
look  one  night  by  the  light  of  the  street  lamp.  It 
made  him  think  of  Javert,  he  knew  not  why.     That 


THE  STRUGGLE   OF  JEAN  VALJEAN    27 

night  there  were  footfalls  in  the  corridor;  the  next 
night  he  took  his  departure.  Leading  Cosette,  he 
walked  through  intricate  and  deserted  streets,  return- 
ing on  his  track  at  times — like  the  hunted  stag — 
to  make  sure  he  was  not  followed.  Cosette  asked 
no  questions;  and  he  knew  no  more  whither  he  was 
going  than  did  she.  He  trusted  God  as  she  trusted 
him.  Presently  he  became  aware  that  he  was  fol- 
lowed by  four  men.  At  one  time  they  paused  in  an 
open  space  in  consultation.  As  one  of  them  turned, 
the  light  of  the  moon  fell  full  upon  his  face.  It  was 
Javert. 

It  is  necessary  to  bear  in  mind  the  great  physical 
strength  of  our  hero  and  also  the  fact  that,  among 
other  things,  he  was  a  past  master  in  the  art  of 
climbing  walls  by  sheer  muscular  force,  without 
ladder  or  climbing-irons.  He  could  brace  himself 
in  the  right  angle  of  a  wall,  using  chiefly  his  knees 
and  elbows,  and  raise  himself  to  a  great  height,  the 
more  surely  if  it  were  a  roughened  surface. 

On  this  desperate  night  he  threw  his  pursuers 
off  the  track  again  and  again,  but  in  vain.  In  a 
desolate  quarter  of  the  city  he  arrived  at  a  walled 
inclosure  containing  a  large  building.  The  wall — 
about  eighteen  feet  in  height — met  the  side  of  the 
building  at  a  right  angle.  Here  was  his  only  hope. 
He  knew  the  men  were  on  his  track;  in  fifteen  min- 
utes they  would  be  there.  Cutting  a  rope  from  the 
pulley  of  a  street  lamp,  he  tied  it  around  Cosette, 
took  the  end  in  his  teeth,  and  in  one  minute  was  at 
the  top  of  the  wall  and  had  drawn  the  child  up  after 


28         FIGURES   FAMED   IN  FICTION 

him.  When  the  detectives  arrived  some  minutes 
later  the  two  had  disappeared  as  completely  as  if 
they  had  dived  into  the  earth. 

Valjcan  found  himself  in  a  large  garden;  it  was, 
in  fact,  the  grounds  of  an  old  convent.  The  order 
of  the  nuns  was  of  the  very  strictest,  and  but  one 
man  was  employed  there,  the  gardener.  Upon 
meeting  him  in  the  early  morning  he  proved  to  be  a 
good,  ignorant  soul,  one  Fauchelevent,  whom  Father 
Madeleine  had  befriended  in  other  days.  He  now 
paid  his  debt  of  gratitude,  securing  for  his  benefactor 
a  position  as  assistant  gardener — under  the  name  of 
Fauchelevent — and  for  Cosette  a  place  in  the 
convent  school.  And  during  the  five  years  that 
followed,  Jean  Valjean — Fauchelevent,  as  he  was 
now  known — was  as  completely  shielded  from  his 
enemies,  the  police,  as  if  he  had  been  in  a  tomb. 

God  has  his  own  ways  in  the  moral  life  of  men. 
There  were  two  things  which  tended  to  complete 
and  uphold  the  Bishop's  work  in  Jean  Valjean. 
The  one  was  Cosette — love  of  the  child  kept  at  bay 
that  hatred  of  humanity  which  assailed  him  again; 
the  other  was  the  convent.  He  could  not  have  told 
the  reason;  but  the  pure  and  holy  life  there,  year 
after  year  —  an  expiation,  as  it  seemed,  for  the  sin 
of  men — stole  into  his  soul  like  the  perfume  of  the 
flowers.  And  to  this  refuge,  with  its  silence  and 
purity,  he  had  been  mercifully  led  at  the  very  time 
when  the  galleys  yawned  again  for  his  body  and  his 
soul.  Verily  God  was  merciful,  and  his  heart  melted 
in  gratitude.     He  began  to  try  to  pray. 


THE    STRUGGLE   OF  JEAN  VALJEAN   29 

Cosette,  meanwhile,  was  religiously  cared  for;  she 
was  receiving  an  education.  She  passed  an  hour 
with  him  daily,  and  for  the  present  he  was  content. 

The  time  came,  however,  when  he  asked  himself 
if  it  were  right  to  arrange  that  she  should  grow  up 
to  be  a  nun,  taking  advantage  of  her  ignorance  of 
life  and  depriving  her  in  advance  of  its  joys  and  its 
freedom?  He  settled  it  with  his  conscience  and 
resolved  to  leave  the  convent.  He  presented  the 
prioress  with  the  sum  of  five  thousand  francs  in 
compensation  for  Cosette 's  five  years  in  her  care 
and — still  bearing  the  name  of  Fauchelevent — 
took  rooms  in  a  quiet  street  in  Paris. 

Two  or  three  years  passed,  uneventful  and  happy. 
The  old  man  began  to  perceive — and,  it  must  be 
confessed  with  a  kind  of  vague  foreboding — that 
his  Cosette  was  no  longer  the  little  child;  woman- 
hood was  dawning.  As  a  child  she  possessed  no 
marked  personal  attractions,  if  we  except  her  won- 
derful eyes  and  lashes.  But  there  is  a  time  when 
girls  blossom  out  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  and 
become  roses  all  at  once.  One  left  them  children 
but  yesterday;  to-day  one  finds  them  disquieting 
to  the  feelings.  Cosette  in  her  girlhood  had  heard 
her  plainness  remarked  upon,  and  seemed  to  accept 
it  quietly  without  question.  One  day  she  chanced 
to  look  at  herself  in  the  mirror  and  said  to  her- 
self, "Really!"  Another  day  she  heard  the  old 
housekeeper  say  to  her  father — for  so  she  called 
him,  "Do  you  notice  how  pretty  Cosette  is  grow- 
ing, sir?" 


30         FIGURES   FAMED   IN  FICTION 

Mariiis  Pont  mercy,  the  ?on  of  a  general  under 
Bonaparte,  a  most  worthy  young  man,  was  at  that 
time  a  student  of  law  in  Paris.  Although  suffering 
from  reverses  of  fortune  and  very  poor,  he  was  all 
that  a  young  man  should  be.  He  noticed  from  time 
to  time  in  his  walks  in  the  Luxembourg  a  beautiful 
girl  in  the  company  of  a  man  many  years  her  senior. 
The  fact  that  he  saw  them  daily  served  to  fix  his 
attention.  A  glance  from  her  wonderful  eyes  one 
day — well,  he  could  not  quite  forget  it.  He  was  in 
his  first  youth,  impressionable,  romantic,  and  lo !  the 
sacred  fire  was  kindled. 

Valjean  was  aware  of  him,  and  trembled.  Who 
was  he  ?  A  prowler  come  to  bear  away  his  happiness  ? 
This  was  the  unreasoning  jealousy  and  fear  that 
claimed  him.  It  was  not  merely  that  her  heart 
might  come  to  know  another;  there  was  a  darker 
trouble  involved,  that  he  could  as  yet  but  dimly  see. 
And  yet,  notwithstanding  his  precautions,  Marius 
found  means  to  form  her  acquaintance  and  the  old, 
old  story  was  told  again. 

Meanwhile  Valjean  had  become  apprehensive 
for  his  own  safety,  but  whether  of  the  police  or  of 
possible  burglars  he  hardly  knew.  He  thought 
at  one  time  to  leave  the  country  for  England.  On 
learning  of  it  through  Cosette,  Marius  was  in  despair, 
for  he  was  too  poor  to  follow. 

"Of  one  thing  I  am  certain,"  said  he.  "If  you 
leave  France  I  shall  die." 

Valjean 's  plans  grew  more  definite.     One  day 
as  he  paced  his  room,   anticipating  the  details  of 


THE  STRUGGLE   OF  JEAN  VALJEAN   31 

the  journey,  he  glanced  in  the  inclined  mirror  which 
surmounted  the  sideboard  and  read  these  lines: 

"My  Dearest:  Alas!  my  father  insists  upon 
setting  out  immediately.  In  a  week  we  shall  be  in 
England.  "Cosette." 

It  was  as  if  he  had  seen  a  spirit!  He  could  not 
believe  his  eyes!  He  finally  understood  that  the 
lines  were  reflected  from  Cosette's  blotter,  which  she 
had  left  upon  the  sideboard.  The  writing,  reversed 
on  the  blotter,  was  righted  in  the  mirror. 

It  was  a  terrible  blow !  Who  was  he  ?  He  divined 
the  identity  at  once;  it  must  be  the  young  man  of 
the  Luxembourg. 

That  night  a  note  was  brought,  addressed  to  her, 
and  which  she  was  evidently  expected  to  read  in  the 
morning.     He  read  as  follows: 

"My  love,  I  die.  When  thou  readest  this,  my 
soul  will  be  near  thee." 

In  those  days  there  was  rioting  in  Paris.  It  was 
the  revolution  of  '32.  Even  at  that  moment  the 
sound  of  the  strife  reached  Jean  Val jean's  ears. 
Why  was  it,  pray,  that,  even  while  a  thrill  of  joy 
went  through  him  that  the  youth — whoever  he 
was  —  would  be  dead  in  the  morning,  he  yet  set 
out  immediately  for  the  barricade  where  the  fighting 
was  in  progress,  thinking  he  might  be  there? 

The  insurgents,  in  a  pause  in  the  fighting,  had 
seized  a  man  as  a  spy,  and  found  upon  his  person 
the  name,  "Javert,  inspector  of  police."  They 
bound  him  to  a  pillar,  saying  as  they  left  him,  "If 


32         FIGURES   FAMED   IN  FICTION 

we  are  worsted,  you  will  be  shot  ten  minutes  before 
the  barricade  is  taken." 

"Why  not  at  once?"  said  he  in  his  imperious  tone. 

"Because,"  was  the  reply,  "we  are  saving  our 
powder." 

An  hour  later,  as  the  insurgent  leader  passed  him, 
"When  are  you  going  to  kill  me?"  said  he. 

"Wait,"  was  the  reply.  "We  need  all  our  cart- 
ridges just  at  present." 

At  that  moment  a  stranger,  just  arrived,  was  sur- 
veying the  prisoner  with  singular  attention.  The 
latter  raised  his  eyes,  and  Javert  and  Valjean  recog- 
nized each  other. 

"May  I  ask  a  favor?"  said  Valjean  to  the  insur- 
gent captain. 

"What  is  it?" 

"That  I  may  shoot  that  man." 

"No  objections,  no  objections.  Take  him  out- 
side." 

Javert  was  pinioned,  as  well  as  bound  to  the  pillar. 
Valjean  cut  him  loose,  marched  him  outside,  and, 
as  they  stood  there,  fixed  upon  him  a  penetrating 
gaze. 

Javert  said  calmly,  "That  is  right;  take  your 
revenge!" 

Valjean  cocked  his  pistol,  then  cut  the  cords  which 
bound  the  arms  of  the  prisoner  and  said  to  him, 
"You  are  free." 

Javert  was  a  man  not  easily  astonished.  Still, 
he  could  not  repress  a  start. 

"Go!"  said  Valjean;  and  when  his  prisoner  had 


THE    STRUGGLE   OF  JEAN  VALJEAN  33 

disappeared  he  discharged  his  pistol  in  the  air.  Re- 
turning to  the  barricade,  he  said,  "It  is  done." 

And  there  he  found  the  young  man  of  the  Luxem- 
bourg, and  in  the  thick  of  the  fight.  Why  was  it 
that  he  kept  his  eye  upon  Marius?  Why  was  it 
that,  when  the  latter  was  desperately  wounded  and 
on  the  point  of  being  made  prisoner,  he  seized  him 
and  bore  him  out  of  the  melee?  Was  it  because 
he  had  begun  to  think — had  begun  to  struggle  to 
think — of  Cosette's  happiness,  whatever  the  cost 
of  promoting  it  might  be,  whatever  it  might  mean 
of  suffering  to  himself? 

There  was  not  a  moment  to  lose  if  he  would  rescue 
this  man.  And  indeed  that  seemed  impossible.  Sud- 
denly he  perceived,  partially  concealed  by  a  heap  of 
stones,  an  iron  grating  some  two  feet  square.  His 
old  instinct  of  escape  was  alive.  To  remove  the 
grating  and  to  descend  into  the  aperture,  bearing 
with  him  the  unconscious  form,  was,  thanks  to  his 
herculean  strength,  but  the  work  of  a  moment.  He 
had  literally  dived  into  the  earth!  He  found  him- 
self in  the  sewers  of  Paris. 

He  traversed  them  for  hours  amid  the  damp  and 
the  darkness  and  the  foul  gases — still  bearing  the 
apparently  lifeless  form — in  the  faint  hope  of 
escaping.  Arrived  at  an  outlet  on  the  river  Seine, 
and  gaining  the  open  air,  he  rested,  almost  exhausted 
by  his  incredible  labors.  And  while  he  debated 
with  himself  as  to  his  best  course,  he  perceived  some 
one  approaching  through  the  darkness.  It  was  a 
form  which  he  knew  too  well. 


34         FIGURES   FAMED   IN  FICTION 

"Inspector  Javcrt,"  said  he,  "you  have  me  in 
your  power.  I  have  only  one  request,  that  you 
help  me  carry  him  home,"  pointing  to  the  wounded 
man.     "The  address  is  to  be  found  on  his  person." 

The  grim  Javert  was  the  prey  of  exceedingly 
strange  emotions.  Without  consenting  or  declining, 
he  hailed  a  hackney  coach  and  within  an  hour  the 
young  Marius  was  safe  with  his  friends. 

"One  more  favor,"  said  Valjean  as  they  reentered 
the  carriage.  "Accompany  me  home  for  one 
moment.     Then  do  with  me  what  you  will." 

Again,  without  consenting  or  declining,  he  gave 
the  necessary  directions  to  the  driver.  Arrived 
there,  "I  will  wait  for  you  here,"  said  he,  as  he  dis- 
missed the  carriage. 

Valjean  entered  the  house,  and  when  he  returned 
to  the  street,  lo!  there  was  no  one  to  be  seen. 
The  grim,  inexorable  soul  had,  in  a  way,  been  con- 
quered by  kindness.  He  was,  in  fact,  almost 
paralyzed  by  what  had  happened  to  him.  Here 
was  a  convict  giving  back  pardon  for  hatred, 
preferring  pity  to  vengeance,  preferring  to  ruin 
himself  rather  than  ruin  his  enemy,  kneeling  on 
the  heights  of  virtue  more  nearly  akin  to  an  angel 
than  to  a  man!  He  was  dumb  with  amazement. 
He  could  neither  deny  nor  explain  the  fact  before 
him.  We  will  not  dwell  upon  the  conflict  within 
him  between  his  professional  duty  on  the  one  hand, 
and  common  gratitude  on  the  other.  Suffice  it  to 
say,  he  found  it  impossible  to  apprehend  and  send 
to  the  galleys  one  who  had  freely  given  him  his  life. 


THE  STRUGGLE  OF  JEAN  VALJEAN  35 

And  now  this  our  peasant-hero,  scarred  in  more 
than  one  moral  battle,  more  than  once  well-nigh 
overthrown,  yet  emerging  in  victory,  entered  the 
final  struggle  of  his  life.  He  had  seen  it  approaching 
in  the  shadows,  and  yet  instead  of  seeking  to  avert 
it,  he  had  deliberately  made  it  possible.  And  this 
was  the  way  it  came. 

The  young  man  Marius  slowly  yet  surely  came 
back  to  life,  and  through  Valjean's  personal  agency 
the  lovers  were  reunited.  He  made  now  a  last 
midnight  visit  to  the  forest  of  Montfermeil,  bearing 
home  the  treasure  buried  there  ten  years  before; 
and  on  Cosette's  wedding  day  he  gave  her  as  her 
dowry  the  princely  sum  of  six  hundred  thousand 
francs.  This  accomplished,  Cosette  more  than 
fortunate  in  her  home  and  in  her  fortune,  what 
remained  but  a  beautiful  evening  of  life  for  him? 
He  was  secure  of  her  love;  the  bright,  beautiful 
creature  adored  him,  and  lavished  upon  him  an 
affection  that  her  new  happiness  but  served  to 
intensify.     What  more  could  he  desire? 

Ah,  now  it  was,  even  now,  that  the  mortal  struggle 
was  on !  This  was  the  question.  What  was  to  be 
his  future  relation  to  this  household?  Should  he 
enter  it,  thrice  welcome  as  he  was,  and  enjoy  its 
peace  and  love?  Why  not,  indeed?  What  reason 
could  he  give?  This  reason.  He  was  a  man  under 
the  ban  of  the  law.  At  any  time  the  unspeakable 
might  happen.  Should  he,  then,  impose  his  past  on 
their  happiness?  Should  he  place  his  overhanging 
fate  as  a  third  associate  in  their  felicity  ?  Should  he 
8 


36         FIGURES   FAMED   IN  FICTION 

be  the  sinister  mute  of  destiny  beside  these  two 
happy  beings? 

It  resolved  itself  into  a  matter  of  conscience,  and 
as  such  it  was  fought  out  and  settled.  But  how 
shall  one  mirror  the  conflict?  Cosette  was  the  very 
light  of  his  eyes,  the  one  joy  of  his  life,  and 
now  to  live  apart,  to  raise  a  barrier,  to  say  to  his 
heart,  "Be  still!"  It  was  fighting  down  his  natural 
being.  It  was  almost  beyond  human  nature.  Al- 
though he  had  foreseen  and  planned  this  course, 
yet  the  night  of  the  crisis  was  a  Gethsemane  which 
well-nigh  took  his  life. 

On  the  morning  after  the  wedding  he  sought  an 
interview  with  Marius.     The  latter  welcomed  him. 

"We  have  been  talking  about  you,"  said  he. 
"Cosette  loves  you  so  dearly!  She  has  furnished 
a  room  for  you,  and,  you  must  understand,  we  are 
all  to  live  together." 

"Monsieur,"  said  Valjean,  straightway  striking 
into  the  terrible  question,  ' '  I  have  something  to  say 
to  you.     I  am  an  ex-convict." 

Marius  was  the  picture  of  consternation .  ' '  What  ? 
What?  You  are  driving  me  mad!"  he  exclaimed, 
as  Valjean  went  on  to  explain  the  situation. 

"Monsieur  Pontmercy,  I  was  in  the  galleys  for 
nineteen  years.  It  was  for  theft.  I  was  again 
condemned  for  life,  for  it  was  a  second  offense.  At 
the  present  moment  I  have  broken  my  ban." 

A  fearful  suspicion  crossed  the  young  man's 
mind.  "Say  all,  say  all!"  he  exclaimed.  "You 
are  Cosette's  father!" 


THE  STRUGGLE   OF  JEAN  VALJEAN  37 

"Before  God,  no,"  said  Valjean.  And  as  he  told 
the  story  of  their  relation  it  was  impossible  to  dis- 
believe him. 

"But  why  do  you  tell  me  all  this?"  said  Marius. 
"You  had  no  need  to  do  it.  You  might  have 
kept  your  secret.  What  should  compel  you  to  dis- 
close it?" 

"Monsieur  Pontmercy,  my  conscience.  It  is  a 
stark  question  of  the  right  and  of  the  wrong.  What 
should  make  it  right  to  do  as  I  have  done?  Every- 
thing. Imagine  this:  I  say  nothing.  I  take  my 
place  in  your  home.  I  enjoy  life  with  you;  we  go 
together  to  the  play  or  to  the  Place  Royale;  and 
one  fine  day  as  we  are  conversing  and  laughing,  lo! 
that  terrible  hand,  the  police,  is  laid  upon  me! 
What  do  you  say  to  that  ?  Do  you  not  see  that  there 
is  only  one  right  way  to  decide  such  a  question? 
You  ask  why  I  speak.  I  am  neither  denounced, 
nor  pursued,  nor  tracked,  you  say.  Yes!  I  am 
denounced!  I  am  tracked!  By  whom?  By  my- 
self. It  is  I  who  bar  the  passage  when  I  would 
flee,  and  I  drag  myself  and  I  push  myself  and  I 
arrest  myself  and  I  execute  myself,  and  when  one 
holds  one's  self,  one  is  firmly  held.  Do  you  know 
now  what  conscience  means?  Do  you  make  to 
yourself  any  picture  of  what  suffering  means  ?  May 
the  good  God  forbid  that  you  should  ever  know." 

Valjean  exacted  of  Marius  the  promise  that 
Cosette  should  never  know  the  secret.  It  was 
arranged  that  the  old  man  should  visit  her  each  day ; 
that   concession   was   made   to   human   weakness. 


3S         FIGURES   FAMED   IN  FICTION 

Cosette  was  puzzled,  annoyed;  she  scolded,  she 
questioned;  and  she  ended  in  considering  her  father 
an  eccentric  person  whose  whims  must  be  duly 
regarded.  Gradually  his  visits  grew  more  brief, 
more  infrequent,  and,  after  a  time,  ceased  altogether. 
Cosette  loved  him;  and,  perplexed  and  regretful, 
would  question  Marius  only  to  be  reassured  and 
diverted.  If  an  estrangement  could  be  brought 
about  between  them  it  would  be  well,  so  it  seemed 
to  him. 

And  let  us  try  to  do  him  justice.  It  is  hardly 
surprising  that  he  should  regard  Valjean  with 
aversion  when  we  consider  that,  in  addition  to  what 
the  latter  had  told  him,  from  what  he  had  seen  at 
the  barricade  he  believed  Valjean  to  have  been  the 
murderer  of  Javert;  and  further,  inquiries  of  the 
Paris  banker  had  led  him  to  believe  that  Valjean 
had  acquired  his  fortune  by  robbery  of  Father 
Madeleine. 

The  time  came,  however,  when,  partly  by  acci- 
dent, he  learned  not  only  that  Valjean  had  spared 
Javert,  that  Valjean  and  Father  Madeleine  were  one 
and  the  same  person,  but  also  that  Valjean  had 
saved  his  life  and  restored  him  to  Cosette,  even 
though  this  last  had  brought  the  greatest  suffering 
the  man's  life  had  known. 

He  could  hardly  wait  to  tell  Cosette  the  story, 
and  together  they  now  sought  their  common  bene- 
factor. But  alas!  the  powers  of  soul  and  body  were 
worn  and  failing,  and  the  end  of  the  grand  life  was 
not  far  away. 


THE  STRUGGLE  OF  JEAN  VALJEAN  39 

Marius,  beside  himself  with  remorse  and  sorrow, 
implored  the  forgiveness  of  one  he  had  so  blindly 
wronged.  Cosette,  bathed  in  tears,  insisted  that  he 
should  live  and  not  die. 

"Draw  near,  both  of  you,"  said  he.  "I  love  you 
dearly.  I  feared  I  should  not  see  you.  God  is  good 
that  He  has  sent  you.  Cosette,  thine  are  the  candle- 
sticks yonder.  I  do  not  know  whether  the  person 
who  gave  them  to  me  is  pleased  with  me  yonder  on 
high,  but  I  have  done  what  I  could.  My  life  has 
been  hard,  I  know  not  why;  but  God  apportions  all 
things.  He  is  there  on  high.  He  sees  us  all,  and  He 
knows  what  He  does  in  the  midst  of  his  great  stars. 
I  am  on  the  verge  of  departure,  my  children.  Think 
of  me  sometimes,  and  love  each  other  well  and 
always." 

The  white  face  looked  up  to  heaven,  whither  the 
white  soul  had  gone. 

The  night  was  starless  and  extremely  dark.  No 
doubt,  in  the  gloom,  some  immense  angel  stood 
erect  with  wings  outspread,  awaiting  that  soul. 


JOHN  HALIFAX 

T  KNOW  all  about  him,  for  I  was  his  life-long 
-*-  friend.  I  loved  him  and,  please  God,  every 
one  shall  love  him  who  hears  my  story.  He  was  a 
poor  boy  who  grew  up  to  be  a  gentleman — a  real 
gentleman — because  it  was  in  him  to  be  one.  I  want 
to  tell  you  all  about  him  in  order  to  make  you  feel, 
if  I  can,  what  a  right  manly  youth  he  was,  and  how  he 
grew  up  into  a  manhood  pure  and  true  and  strong. 
The  rare  dignity  and  beauty  of  it — I  thank  God  for 
having  known  it  through  all  the  years.  And  now  let 
me  tell  it  all  in  a  simple  way,  just  as  it  happened. 

One  day  my  father  was  pushing  me  in  my  hand- 
carriage —  I  was  never  strong  like  other  boys — when 
a  shower  overtook  us  and  we  hastened  into  an  alley 
under  cover.  A  lad  of  about  my  own  age  sought 
shelter  there  at  the  same  time.  He  was  ragged  and 
muddy,  and  he  looked  very  hungry.  But  he  was 
tall  and  strongly  built,  and  his  face  was  one  you 
never  could  forget ;  his  brown  eyes,  strongly  marked 
brows,  his  lips  lying  one  upon  the  other,  firm  and 
close,  and  his  square,  resolute  chin — all  this  would 
cause  any  one  to  look  at  him  a  second  time.  My 
father  was  a  worthy  man,  just  and  stern  withal, 
never  wasting  sympathy  anywhere,  and  absorbed  in 
his  business.  He  hardly  noticed  the  lad  at  all,  and 
when  the  shower  was  over — 

"Twenty-three    minutes    lost    by    this    shower. 

40 


\ 


JOHN   HALIFAX  41 

Phineas,  my  son,  how  am  I  to  get  thee  safe  home? 
Here,  Sally  Watkins!  Do  any  of  thy  lads  want  to 
earn  an  honest  penny?" 

"Sir,  I  want  work;  may  I  earn  the  penny?"  said 
the  boy  stranger,  speaking  for  the  first  time  and, 
taking  off  his  tattered  old  cap,  looked  straight  into 
my  father's  face.     The  old  man  scanned  him  closely. 

"What  is  thy  name,  lad?" 

"John  Halifax." 

"Hast  thee  any  parents  living?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Thee  art  used  to  work?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Whatsort  of  work?" 

"Anything  I  can  do,  sir." 

"Well,  thee  shalt  take  my  son  home,  and  I  will 
give  thee  a  penny.  Let  me  see !  Art  thou  a  lad  to 
be  trusted?"  And  he  held  him  at  arm's  length 
and  looked  him  through  and  through.  The  boy 
met  his  gaze  in  a  way  so  utterly  honest  that  he  con- 
quered.    My  stern  father  smiled  a  little. 

"Lad,  shall  I  give  thee  thy  penny  now?" 

"Not  till  I  've  earned  it,  sir,"  was  the  steady  reply. 

On  the  way  home  we  became  quite  sociable.  I 
got  him  to  tell  me  of  his  weary  life,  all  alone  in  the 
world  and  trying  to  get  work  from  day  to  day.  As 
we  reached  the  house  I  tried  to  get  out  of  my  little 
carriage  and  to  mount  the  steps  to  the  house  door. 
He  came  to  my  aid. 

"Suppose  you  let  me  carry  you.  I  could  and — 
and — it  would  be  great  fun,  you  know." 


42         FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

He  tried  to  turn  it  into  a  jest  so  as  not  to  hurt  me, 
but  the  tremble  in  his  voice  was  tender  as  any 
woman's;  tenderer  than  any  woman's  I  ever  heard. 
I  put  my  arms  about  his  neck  and  he,  Hfting  me 
gently,  set  me  carefully  down  at  my  door  and  turned 
to  go. 

"So  here  thee  be,"  said  my  father,  coming  up  at 
the  moment.  "Here  is  thy  penny,  and  a  shilling 
added  for  being  kind  to  my  son." 

"Thank  3'ou,  sir,  but  I  only  want  payment  for 
work."  He  put  the  shilling  back  into  my  father's 
hand. 

"Eh!  Thee'rt  an  odd  lad;  but  I  can't  stay  talk- 
ing with  thee.  Come  in  to  dinner,  Phineas."  Then 
suddenly  turning  to  John — "Art  thee  hungry?" 

"Very  hungry,  sir;  nearly  starving!"  And  the 
great  tears  came  into  his  eyes. 

' '  Bless  me !  Then  get  thee  into  the  kitchen  and  have 
thy  dinner!  But,  hold — thee  art  a  decent  lad,  come 
of  decent  parents?"     My  father  was  so  severe. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Thee  works  for  thy  living?" 

"I  do,  whenever  I  can  get  work." 

"Thee  hast  never  been  in  jail?" 

"No!"  thundered  the  lad  with  a  furious  look. 
"I  don't  want  your  dinner,  sir!  I  would  have 
stayed,  because  your  son  was  kind  to  me  and  because 
I  was  so  hungry.  Now  I  think  I  had  better  go. 
Good  day,  sir!" 

Oh,  how  my  heart  went  out  to  him!  I  caught 
him  by  the  hand,  and  would  not  let  him  go. 


JOHN   HALIFAX  43 

There  are  words  in  a  very  old  Book — even  in  its 
human  histories  the  most  pathetic  of  all  books — 
which  run  thus:  "And  it  came  to  pass  when  he 
had  made  an  end  of  speaking  unto  Saul  that  the 
soul  of  Jonathan  was  knit  unto  the  soul  of  David; 
and  Jonathan  loved  him  as  his  own  soul."  I, 
surely,  had  found  my  David.  That  very  first  day 
I  met  him,  I  loved  him  as  my  own  soul. 

After  dinner  our  housekeeper  said  to  me,  "Don't 
keep  him  long;  we  don't  want  beggar  boys  around 
here." 

I  hoped  John  had  not  heard  her;  but  he  had. 

"Madam,"  said  he  with  a  bow  of  perfect  good 
humor,  "you  mistake.  I  never  begged  in  my  life. 
I'm  a  person  of  independent  property,  which  con- 
sists of  my  head  and  these  two  hands,  out  of  which 
I  hope  to  make  a  fortune  some  day." 

He  stayed  with  me  an  hour,  and  my  father — who 
was  a  prosperous  tanner — finally  hired  him  to  drive 
a  cart  at  the  tannery.  I  could  have  wept,  I  was  so 
glad. 

I  wish  I  had  the  time  to  tell  how  he  served  my 
father;  with  how  much  conscience  he  did  his  work, 
doing  it  always  somewhat  better  than  was  required 
of  him.  One  knew  from  every  tone  of  his  voice, 
every  chance  expression  of  his  honest  eyes,  that  his 
was  a  character  the  keystone  of  which  was  depend- 
ableness.  And  on  this  solid  rock  is  built,  not  only 
value  to  one's  employer,  but  also  all  Hking  and  all 
love — that  lasts.  He  was  one  whom  you  may  be 
long  in  knowing,  but  whom,  the  more  you  know  the 


44         FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

more  you  trust;  and,  once  trusting,  you  trust  forever. 

I  was  confined  to  my  room  and  did  not  see  him 
for  a  month.  I  was  taken  to  the  tan-yard  one  day, 
and  my  father  allowed  him  to  stay  by  me  for  a  time. 
I  found  he  had  two  distinct  moods.  Sometimes  he 
was  a  regular  boy ;  as  when  I  asked  him  did  he  like 
the  tan-3'ard,  he  said,  "To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  hate 
the  tan-yard,"  relieving  his  feelings  by  kicking  a 
small  heap  of  tan  down  into  the  river.  And  then 
he  sobered  down,  saying  he  supposed  he  ought  not 
to  feel  so. 

"What  should  you  like  to  be,  John?"  I  asked  him. 

"Well,  I'd  like  to  be  anything  that  is  honest  and 
honorable.  I'm  only  a  lad,  and  I  can't  see  things 
clear  yet;  but  I  grow  sure  of  this;  that,  whether  I 
like  it  or  not,  I'll  stick  to  the  tarming  as  long  as 
I  can." 

"Oh,  dear!  Look!  There's  a  young  gentleman 
coming,  and  here  I  be  in  my  dirty  gown,"  said  our 
housekeeper.  She  and  I  were  in  the  garden.  I 
turned  my  head,  and  there  was  John  Halifax  coming 
up  the  garden  walk.  He  was  newly  clad,  and  looked 
so  bright  and  manly  as  he  approached  us;  and  the 
housekeeper  was  disgusted  at  her  mistake,  for  she 
never  liked  him. 

It  was  long  since  I  had  seen  him.  My  father  had 
found  he  was  one  to  be  trusted,  and  he  now  employed 
him  in  making  money  collections. 

"Mr.  Fletcher  has  given  me  a  holiday  to  spend 
with  you,"  he  said.     "Is  n't  that  grand!" 


JOHN  HALIFAX  45 

And  then  as  we  went  I  had  many  things  to  ask 
him.  "John,  what  have  you  been  doing  all  win- 
ter?" for  I  had  seen  little  of  him. 

"Oh,  working  from  daylight  till  dark,  and  then 
at  odd  minutes,  learning  to  read.  And  I  have  read 
the  books  you  sent  me,  Pilgrim's  Progress,  Robinson 
Crusoe,  and  the  Arabian  Nights.  And  the  one  you 
gave  me  at  Christmas;  I  have  read  that  a  great 
deal." 

I  liked  the  tone  of  quiet  reverence  in  which  he 
spoke.     I  liked  to  hear  him  own,  nor  be  ashamed 
to  own,  that  he  read  a  great  deal  in  that  rare  boc 
for  a  boy  to  read,  the  Bible. 

"But  I  cannot  write,"  he  said,  with  an  accent  of 
shame  that  went  to  my  heart,  "and  I  do  so  want 
to  learn." 

"I'll  teach  you,"  said  I.  "Give  me  your  stick. 
Here  goes  for  our  first  lesson!"  And  we  covered 
the  sand  with  J  O  H  N  in  all  directions. 

"Bravo!"  he  cried  as  we  turned  homeward,  "I 
have  gained  something  to-day. " 

One  day  that  spring  the  river  was  rapidly  rising; 
and  although  John  watched  it  that  night,  and 
warned  my  father,  yet  when  the  morning  came  one 
half  his  property  was  swept  away. 

"Never  mind,  father,"  said  I;  "it  might  have 
been  worse." 

"Of  a  surety,  my  son.  I  should  have  lost  every- 
thing save  for —  Where  is  the  lad?  Come  in! 
Come  in." 

John  came  in,  wet  and  cold,  to  the  fireside.     My 


46         FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

father  ordered  breakfast;  and  when  the  housekeeper 
brought  the  mug  of  ale  and  the  bread  and  cheese 
for  one  only,  "Another  plate!"  he  said,  sharply. 

"The  lad  can  take  his  meal  in  the  kitchen," 
said  she. 

"Nay,  woman;  bring  another  plate  and  another 
mug  of  ale!"  And  to  her  great  wrath  and  to  my 
great  joy  John  sat  down  for  the  first  time  to  the  same 
board  with  his  master.  It  was  a  red-letter  day  in 
our  household. 

"John  Halifax,  thee  hast  been  of  great  service  to 
me  this  night.     What  reward  shall  I  give  thee?" 

"Thank  j^ou,  sir;  it  is  enough  reward  for  me  that 
I  have  been  useful  to  my  master,  and  that  he  ac- 
knowledges it." 

jMy  father  thought  a  minute,  and  then  offered 
his  hand.  "Thee'rt  in  the  right,  lad.  I  am  very 
much  obliged  to  thee,  and  I  will  not  forget  it." 
And  there  was  a  light  in  John's  eye  that  no  payment 
of  reward  could  have  kindled  there. 

One  June  evening  we  were  together  out  of  doors. 
"Phineas,"  said  he,  sitting  in  the  grass,  v.^ith  the  one 
star — I  think  it  was  Jupiter — shining  into  his  eyes, 
' '  Phineas,  I  wonder  how  soon  we  shall  have  to  really 
begin  to  fight  our  battles  in  the  world,  and  if  we  are 
ready  for  it,"  as  if  he  had  not  been  doing  it  always. 

"I  think  you  are  ready,"  said  I. 

"I  don't  know.  I'm  not  clear  how  far  I  could 
resist  doing  a  wrong  thing  if  it  were  pleasant;  so 
many  wrong  things  are  pleasant,  you  know.  Just 
now,  instead  of  rising  at  six  to-morrow  morning 


JOHN  HALIFAX  47 

and  going  to  the  tannery,  should  n't  I  like  to  break 
away,  dash  out  into  the  world,  do  all  sorts  of  grand 
things,  and  perhaps  never  come  back  to  the  tanning 
any  more!" 

' '  Never  any  more  ? " 

"Oh,  no!  Not  that  I  would  do  it,  but  that  some- 
times the  wish  comes  over  me."  And  I  couldn't 
help  thinking  what  a  romantic  youth  he  was,  after 
all,  albeit  he  seemed  so  sedate  and  steady  in  doing 
the  work  appointed  him. 

I  have  not  the  time  to  tell  of  the  terrible  days  of 
the  year  1800,  the  year  of  famine  and  the  bread 
riots.  God  knows  what  madness  there  was  when 
men  took  up  arms  because  their  families  were 
starving.  My  father  had  a  large  store  of  wheat; 
and  when  the  mob  demanded  bread  he  was  wrath- 
ful, hating  mob  rule,  and  resisted  them  night  and 
day.  At  length  he  was  broken  by  the  strain,  and 
for  a  day  or  two  was  confined  to  his  room.  Can  I 
ever  forget  that  night  when  the  mob  came  to  burn 
our  house  over  our  heads!  Out  through  the  door 
John  went,  and  closed  it  behind  him. 

"Hungry,  are  ye,  men?  God  pity  ye!  I,  too, 
know  what  it  is  to  be  hungry." 

"Yea,  yea;  Mr.  Halifax  were  a  poor  boy,"  said 
some  one  in  the  crowd. 

"He  were  kind  to  my  lad,  he  were;  don't  hurt 
him,"  said  another. 

"Men,"  said  John,  "suppose  I  give  you  some- 
thing to  eat;  would  you  Hsten  to  me  afterward?" 
And  then  he  ordered  the  housekeeper  to  pass  out 


48         FIGURES   FAiMED   IN   FICTION 

to  him  all  the  food  the  house  contained.  When 
he  had  fed  them  he  hastily  consulted  with  me  as  to 
a  plan,  asking  if  my  father  would  approve.  It  was 
to  give  them,  each  and  all,  a  portion  of  fiour  at  the 
storehouse  the  next  morning.  I  sanctioned  it  in 
my  father's  name,  and  with  the  promise  he  sent 
them  away. 

"Thank  God  that  is  over,"  said  he  as  he  came  into 
the  house  almost  staggering.  And  when  my  father 
arose  the  next  morning,  and  found  the  tannery 
and  the  warehouse  were  not  burned  down,  he  was 
not  the  man  to  pass  it  lightly  by. 

"John,  how  old  art  thou?" 

"Twenty,  sir." 

"Then  I  will  take  thee  as  my  'prentice  from  this 
time,  and  partner,  if  thee  like,  at  twenty-one.  My 
days  may  be  numbered — God  knows.  But  remem- 
ber,"— and  he  looked,  in  his  stern  way,  into  John's 
eyes, — "thou  hast  in  some  measure  taken  that 
lad's  place.  May  God  Almighty  deal  with  thee  as 
thou  dealest  with  him,  my  only  son!" 

"Amen!"  was  the  solemn  answer. 

And  God  who  sees  us  both,  even  now,  in  the  light 
of  His  own  eternal  truth,  knows,  as  men  cannot 
know,  how  John  Halifax  kept  that  vow. 

I  must  tell  you  what  a  goodly  young  man  he  had 
grown  to  be.  I  do  not  suppose  he  was  handsome; 
indeed,  I  have  heard  people  say  he  was  plain.  But 
the  charm  of  his  face  was  in  its  variety  of  expression. 
When  you  believed  you  had  learned  it,  line  by  line, 
it  would   startle  you  by  a  phase  quite  new  and 


JOHN   HALIFAX  49 

beautiful.  True,  it  had  its  reticences,  its  disguises,  its 
noble  power  of  self-control;  and  yet  one  could  read 
it  often,  like  an  open  book;  only,  in  order  to  do  it, 
one  must  come  from  its  own  country  and  know  its 
language.  He  dressed  simply  yet  with  the  greatest 
taste  and  care.  Something  of  this  was  required, 
indeed,  going  often  out  of  town  on  my  father's 
business.  To-day  he  was  taking  me  to  see  a  country 
house  a  few  miles  out — for  Dr.  Jessop  had  insisted 
upon  country  air  for  me — and  I  cannot  forget  his 
manly,  graceful  figure.  His  brown  eyes — the  win- 
dows of  his  soul — and  his  hair  a  little  darker  than 
it  used  to  be,  but  of  the  true  Saxon  color  still  and 
curly  as  ever,  blown  about  by  the  wind  under  his 
broad  hat.  I  thought  any  father  might  be  proud 
of  such  a  son,  any  sister  of  such  a  brother,  any 
young  girl  of  such  a  lover.  Ay!  that  last  tie!  I 
wondered  how  long  it  would  be  before  times  would 
change,  and  I  would  cease  to  be  the  only  one  who 
was  proud  of  him. 

We  came  to  Enderly.  It  was  beautiful  there, 
and  the  fresh  air  was  delightful.  We  secured  rooms 
in  a  large  country  house,  occupied  by  the  housekeeper 
and  by  one  other  family  beside  ourselves.  John 
spent  his  days  in  town,  coming  out  at  night  to  me. 
How  I  used  to  watch  for  his  coming ! 

I  come  now  to  tell  the  story  of  the  romance  that 
came  into  his  life.  I  love  to  tell  it,  because  it  is  so 
infinitely  sweet  and  pure.  It  brought  out  the 
hidden  qualities  of  his  nature,  awaking  that  in  him 
which  till  then  had  slumbered,  setting  him  before 


50         FIGURES  FAMED   IN  FICTION 

me  as  a  new  and  a  nobler  man;  me,  who  knew  him 
so  well ! 

The  other  tenants  in  the  house  were  an  English 
gentleman  and  his  daughter.  Mr.  March  was  an 
invalid,  late  returned  from  the  service  of  the  govern- 
ment in  India,  and  his  daughter  Ursula  was  his 
constant  companion.  For  some  time  a  mystery- 
seemed  to  surround  her;  we  half  saw  her  a  half- 
dozen  times.  And  this  aroused  our  attention  the 
more  as  we  were  of  that  susceptible  age  when 
romance  is  so  natural,  at  least  to  a  healthy  nature; 
the  time — a  sweet  time  too,  although  it  does  not 
last — when  the  grand  old  folio  of  Shakespeare  seems 
to  open  of  itself  at  Romeo  and  Juliet — John  read 
it  all  through  to  me.  We  had  both  escaped  the 
follies  and  the  wickedness  of  youth;  I  am  glad  we 
could  look  up  in  the  face  of  heaven  and  say  so. 
Many  may  doubt  or  smile  at  the  fact;  but  I  state 
it  now  in  my  old  age  with  honor  and  pride  that  we 
two  young  men  in  those  days  trembled  on  the  sub- 
ject of  love  as  shyly,  as  reverently,  as  delicately  as 
any  two  innocent  maidens  of  sixteen. 

We  first  really  saw  her  by  accident  one  morning. 
She  was  standing  by  the  gate,  playing  with  a  little 
child,  and  did  not  notice  us  till  the  housekeeper  said, 
"Please,  Miss,  let  the  gentlemen  pass." 

With  a  slight  start,  she  stepped  aside.  She  was 
a  girl  in  early  maturity,  rather  tall,  with  a  figure 
built  for  activity  and  energy;  dark-complexioned, 
dark-eyed,  dark-haired — the  whole  coloring  being 
of  that  soft  darkness  of  tone  which  gives  a  sense  of 


JOHN  HALIFAX  51 

something  warm  and  tender;  at  one  and  the  same 
time  strong  and  womanly.  Thorough  woman  she 
seemed;  not  a  bit  of  angel  about  her.  As  for  her 
attire,  it  was  rich  and  simply  made,  with  no  frip- 
peries or  fandangoes  of  any  sort,  reaching  up  to  her 
throat  and  down  to  her  wrists,  where  it  had  some 
trimming  of  white  fur.  We  met  her  on  our  walk 
next  morning.  She  bowed  with  remarkable  grace 
and  self-possession,  and  I  could  not  help  remarking 
it  to  John. 

Mr.  March  was  alarmingly  ill  one  night,  and  John, 
on  learning  of  it  through  our  landlady,  insisted  on 
going  for  the  physician,  a  ride  of  eight  miles.  "Oh, 
you  are  the  kindest  young  gentleman  in  the  world; 
I  will  tell  Miss  March  so.  'Miss,'  said  I  to  her  the 
very  first  day  you  came  looking  for  lodgings,  'who 
Mr.  Halifax  may  be  I  don't  know;  but  depend  upon 
it,  he's  a  real  gentleman.'  " 

We  lingered  in  our  landlady's  rooms  that  night 
to  learn  of  his  condition,  when  Miss  March  herself 
came  suddenly  in.  There  were  no  introductions 
and,  strange  to  say,  no  awkwardness.  She  acknowl- 
edged us  by  a  slight  bow.  John  came  forward,  and 
he  was  thinking  so  little  of  himself  that  his  demeanor 
— earnest,  gentle,  kind — was  the  sublimation  of  all 
manly  courtesy. 

"I  hope,  madam,  that  Mr.  March  is  better.  We 
were  unwilling  to  retire  until  we  had  heard." 

"Thank  you,  my  father  is  much  better;  you  are 
very  kind,"  said  she,  with  a  maidenly  drooping  of 
the  eyes. 

4 


52         FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

"Are  you  sure,  madam,  there  is  nothing  else  I 
can  do  for  you?" 

His  sweet,  grave  manner,  softened  with  that  quiet 
deference  which  marked  at  once  the  man  who 
reverenced  all  women  simply  for  their  womanhood, 
seemed  to  reassure  her.  Nature,  sincerity,  and 
simplicity  conquered  all  conventional  trammels. 
She  held  out  her  hand  to  him. 

"I  thank  you  very  much,  Mr.  Halifax.  If  I 
wanted  help  I  would  ask  you;  indeed,  I  would." 

"Thank  you,''  said  he.     "Good  night." 

Years  afterwards  John  confessed  to  me  that  the 
touch  of  that  hand  was  the  revelation  of  a  new  world 
to  his  soul. 

After  this  we  met  them  often,  the  invalid  and  his 
daughter.     She  asked  me  about  John  one  day. 

"You  and  he  seem  to  be  great  friends,"  said  she. 

"John  is  brother,  friend,  everything  in  the  world 
to  me." 

"Is  he?  He  must  be  very  good;  indeed,  he  looks 
so,"  she  replied  thoughtfully.  "And  I  believe  — 
at  least  I  have  often  heard — that  good  men  are  rare." 

He  joined  us  just  then.  "I  beg  pardon  for 
intruding,"  said  he.  "I  just  heard  my  own  name. 
What  terrible  histories  has  this  friend  of  mine  been 
unfolding  to  you?" 

There  was  the  mischief  and  fun  of  girlhood  in  her 
eyes  as  she  replied,  "I  have  a  great  mind  not  to  tell 
you,  Mr.  Halifax." 

"Not  when  I  ask  you?"  He  spoke  so  seriously 
that  she  could  not  choose  but  answer. 


JOHN   HALIFAX  53 

"Well,  Mr.  Fletcher  was  telling  me,  first,  that 
you  were  an  orphan;  secondly,  that  you  were  his 
dearest  friend;  thirdly — well,  I  never  compromise 
truth — that  you  were  good." 

"And  you— ?" 

"The  first  I  was  ignorant  of;  the  second  I  had 
already  guessed;  the  third" — he  gazed  at  her 
intently — "I  had  likewise  not  doubted." 

Her  poor  father  came  to  his  end,  and  she  was 
alone  with  her  grief.  All  that  John  did  in  arranging 
and  superintending  I  cannot  try  to  tell.  In  his 
whole  bearing  was  such  grave  purity,  such  honest 
truth,  that  no  wonder,  young  as  they  both  were, 
even  though  she  knew  so  little  of  him,  this  orphan 
girl  should  not  have  feared  to  trust  him  entirely. 
And  need  I  say  again,  what  I  have  implied  before, 
that  of  all  men  John  Halifax  was  the  one  to  be 
trusted,  in  time  of  trouble  or  at  any  time? 

There  was  no  disguise  now ;  none  at  least  from  me. 
I  saw  him  under  the  power  of  his  first  passion,  and 
it  was  hopeless,  and  I  was  helpless  to  minister  peace. 

Now  I  shall  despair  of  making  clear  the  situation 
to  any  who  do  not  realize  the  gulf  of  separation 
between  classes  in  England,  especially  in  the  time 
of  which  I  am  writing.  On  the  one  hand  were  the 
common  people,  laborers,  artisans,  tradesmen;  on 
the  other,  the  gentry.  The  words  "lady"  and 
"gentleman"  were  titles.  A  gentleman  and  a 
tradesman  were  not  regarded  as  equals;  there  was, 
socially,  a  gulf  between  them.  You  see  now  what 
I  mean  in  speaking  of  my  friend's  hopeless  passion. 


54         FIGURES  FAMED   IN   FICTION 

Ursula  March  was  a  "lady"  and  an  heiress,  and 
John  — 

The  next  time  we  met  we  learned  that  she  had 
relatives  in  our  town.  But  when  she  inquired  about 
them,  John  informed  her  that  he  was  not.  supposed 
to  know  them. 

She  smiled.  "Why?  Because  you  are  not  very 
rich?  What  can  that  signify?  It  is  enough  for 
me  that  my  friends  are  gentlemen." 

"But  your  relatives  would  not  allow  my  claim 
to  that  title.  Let  me  explain,"  he  went  on,  as  she 
gazed  at  him  in  astonishment.  "You  and  I  have, 
indeed,  met  here  as  friends,  as  equals;  but  society 
would  not  regard  us  as  such,  and  in  society  I  doubt 
if  even  you  would  wish  us  to  be  known  as  friends." 

"And  why  not?"  said  she,  more  astonished  than 
ever. 

"Because  you  are  a  gentlewoman  and  I  am  a 
tradesman." 

It  was  evidently  a  shock  to  her.  To  one  of  her 
social  training  it  could  not  have  been  otherwise. 
She  was  silent. 

Many  words  would  not  suffice  to  tell  of  his  suffer- 
ing in  the  months  that  followed.  I  said  little  to  him ; 
it  was  best  so,  I  thought.  Surely  he  would  in  time 
forget.     But  it  was  not  in  his  nature  to  forget. 

"Nothing  can  do  me  any  good,"  said  he  one  day, 
"nothing  but  bearing  it.  God  forgive  me!  but  I 
sometimes  think  I  could  give  myself  body  and  soul 
to  the  devil  for  one  glimpse  of  her  face  or  one  touch 
of  her  hand !     Oh,  lad,  if  I  could  only  die ! " 


JOHN  HALIFAX  55 

Now  I  want  to  tell  you  of  a  time  when  I  was  so 
proud  of  John;  when  the  nobility  in  him  shone  out 
so  clear  that  even  I  wondered  as  I  saw. 

It  was  at  a  little  social  evening  at  Mrs.  Jessop's, 
the  wife  of  our  good  doctor.  The  doctor  and  his 
wife  both  knew  us,  were  always  glad  to  see  us,  and 
yet,  strange  to  say,  they  were  in  good  social  standing. 
Thus  it  came  about  that  one  evening  we  found  our- 
selves in  the  lighted  drawing  room,  where  we  were 
to  meet,  among  others,  Lady  Caroline  Brithwood,  a 
relative  of  our  friend  Miss  March.  Whether  she 
would  be  there,  we  did  not  know. 

"Mr.  Halifax!  It  is  kind  of  you  to  come;  Lady 
Caroline  will  be  delighted  to  make  your  acquaint- 
ance," said  good  Mrs.  Jessop,  in  tones  that  every 
one  might  hear;  and  straightway  people  became 
exceedingly  attentive.  It  was  John's  introduction 
to  the  social  world,  but  he  bore  himself  with  a  quiet 
self-possession  that  became  him  passing  well.  Lady 
Caroline  was  in  the  zenith  of  her  charms,  a  lady  at 
least  in  name.  She  floated  about,  leaving  an 
impression  of  pseudo  Greek  draperies,  gleaming 
arms  and  shoulders,  sparkling  jewelry,  and  equally 
sparkling  smiles.  She  was  an  earl's  daughter  and, 
although  we  instinctively  felt  there  was  something 
wanting,  yet  she  was  certainly  brilliant  and  charming. 

"Mrs.  Jessop,  my  good  friend,  one  moment,"  I 
heard  her  whisper.  "Where  is  your  young  hero,  your 
man  of  the  people?  Does  he  wear  clouted  shoes 
and  woolen  stockings?  Has  he  a  broad  face  and 
turned-up  nose  ? ' ' 


56         FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

"Judge  for  yourself,  my  lady;  he  stands  at  your 
elbow.  Mr.  Halifax,  allow  me  to  present  you  to 
Lady  Caroline  Brithwood." 

If  Lord  Luxmore's  fair  daughter  ever  looked  con- 
founded it  was  at  that  moment.  She  half  extended 
her  hand;  but  no,  it  was  impossible  to  patronize 
John  Halifax.  And  so,  as  he  bowed  gravely,  she 
made  a  gracious  curtesy.  They  met  on  equal 
terms,  a  lady  and  a  gentleman. 

And  somehow  or  other  she  liked  him,  and  sum- 
moned all  her  arts  to  please  him.  Here  was 
something  new  and  unique  to  her  in  the  social 
world.  His  quiet  dignity  and  rare  good  sense 
made  him  master  of  the  situation.  She  spoke  occa- 
sionally in  French,  and  to  my  surprise  he  answered 
her  in  the  same;  how  he  had  learned  it  I  could  not 
imagine. 

After  a  time,  "Mr.  Brithwood,"  said  she,  "let 
me  introduce  you  to  a  new  friend  of  mine."  The 
coarse,  bloated  young  squire,  her  husband,  lounged 
up  to  them.  "He  lives  in  town;  you  must  have 
heard  of  him." 

"By  Jove,  I  think  not!     What  is  the  name?" 

"Mr.  John  Halifax." 

"What,  Halifax  the  tanner?" 

"The  same,"  said  John  in  reply. 

"Phew!" — and  he  turned  on  his  heel.  Lady 
Caroline  laughed  an  amused  laugh.  "Look  here, 
Richard,  Mr.  Halifax  is  to  dine  with  us  next 
Sunday,"  and  she  whispered  a  word  or  two  to  con- 
ciliate him. 


JOHN   HALIFAX  57 

But  John  heeded  not,  for  there,  entering  with  the 
hostess,  was  one  he  knew.  As  she  passed  they 
bowed  to  each  other,  but  not  a  word  was  spoken. 

Soon  the  squire  called  across  the  room  in  a  patron- 
izing tone ,  ' '  My  good  fellow !    I  say,  young  Halifax ! ' ' 

They  stood  face  to  face — the  gentleman  by  title 
and  the  gentleman  by  nature ;  and  every  one  could 
see  the  difference  between  them. 

"On  my  soul,  it's  awkward.  I  think  I'll— I'll 
call  at  the  tan-yard  and  explain." 

"I  do  not  understand  you,  sir." 

"Well,  now,  look  here.  You  may  be  a  very 
respectable  young  man  for  aught  I  know.  Still, 
rank  is  rank,  and  so  that  nonsense  of  my  wife's 
about  inviting  you  to  my  table,  I  hope  you  'II  forget 
entirely,  you  know." 

' '  Do  not  trouble  yourself,  sir ;  I  could  not  humili- 
ate myself  by  accepting  such  an  invitation." 

The  squire  started  as  if  pricked  by  a  dagger,  and 
could  think  of  no  refuge  but  abuse.  He  grew  violent, 
while  John  grew  even  more  superior  in  his  quiet 
dignity. 

* '  Now  mark  me,  you — you  vagabond. ' ' 

Ursula  March  had  been  listening.  She  rapidly 
crossed  the  room  and  caught  his  arm,  her  eyes 
gleaming  fire. 

"Cousin,  in  my  presence  this  gentleman  shall  be 
treated  as  a  gentleman.     He  was  kind  to  my  father." 

"Curse  your  father!"  and  with  that  the  "gentle- 
man" turned  and  struck  the  other.  In  that  time 
a  duel  was  the  uniform  result. 


5S         FIGURES  FAMED   IN   FICTION 

Jolin  staggered.  But  in  a  moment  he  quieted 
himself  by  an  almost  superhuman  effort. 

"He  won't  fight;  he's  a  Quaker,"  whispered  some 
one. 

"No,"  said  he,  "I  am  a  Christian,"  and  he  stood 
erect  and  very  pale.  Ursula  watched  him  with 
evident  admiration,  then  approached  him  and  gave 
him  her  hand  before  them  all!  It  was  worth  all 
he  had  endured. 

"Is  there  a  man  in  all  England  who  would  have 
borne  so  charmingly  such  a  degradation?"  said 
Lady  Caroline. 

"Cousin,"  said  Ursula,  "the  only  real  degradation 
that  can  come  to  a  man  is  when  he  degrades  himself." 

John,  as  he  passed  out — for  he  took  leave  imme- 
diately—  caught  her  words,  and  no  crowned  victor 
ever  wore  a  prouder  face. 

"Mrs.  Jessop,"  said  he,  " I  ought  not  to  have  come : 
your  social  world  is  a  hard  world  for  such  as  I.  I 
shall  never  conquer  it,  never." 

"Yes,  you  will,"  and  Ursula  stood  by  them  with 
crimson  cheeks  and  flashing  eyes.  * '  Mr.  Halifax,  you 
have  shown  me  to-night,  what  I  shall  remember  all  my 
life,  that  a  Christian  only  can  be  a  true  gentleman." 

She  understood  him — he  felt  she  did;  understood 
him  as,  if  a  man  be  understood  by  one  woman  in 
the  "world,  he — and  she  too — is  safe  and  strong  and 
happy.  They  clasped  hands  once  more,  and  gazed 
unhesitatingly  into  each  other's  eyes.  All  human 
passion  for  the  time  being  set  aside,  these  two 
recognized  each  in  other  something  higher  than  love, 


JOHN  HALIFAX  59 

something  better  than  happiness.  It  must  have 
been  a  blessed  moment  for  them  both. 

And  yet  the  months  that  followed  were  terribly 
hard  for  John.  To  live  in  the  same  town,  to  see 
her  now  and  again  at  a  distance  and  nothing  more, 
and  to  know  that  nothing  more  could  ever  be.  He 
came  home  one  night  in  a  strange  humor. 

"Now,  Phineas,  it  is  all  ended." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  have  looked  on  her  for  the  last  time." 

"Why,  is  she  going?" 

"No,  but  I  am — fleeing  from  the  devil  and  all  his 
angels.  Let's  have  a  merry  night;  I  shall  sail  for 
America  to-morrow!" 

With  a  mad  laugh  he  dropped  heavily  in  a  chair, 
and  an  hour  later  was  lying  on  my  bed  in  a  fever. 
He  would  not  have  Dr.  Jessop,  and  we  called  in  a 
stranger.  But  he  did  not  mend.  Days  slid  into 
weeks,  and  still  he  lay  there,  never  complaining,  and 
seemingly  possessed  of  a  longing  for  rest.  And  as 
I  saw  him  sinking  day  by  day —  Qh,  God  of  mercy ! 
if  I  were  to  be  left  in  this  world  without  my  brother ! 
I  fell  upon  my  knees,  and  the  dumb  cry  of  my  agony 
went  up  to  God. 

How  could  I  save  him?  There  was  but  one  way, 
and  I  sprung  at  it,  not  thinking  whether  it  were 
honorable  or  no. 

Thirty  minutes  later  I  had  called  upon  her. 
She  was  glad  to  see  me;  she  had  not  seen  either  of 
us  lately.  That  sweet,  shy  look,  that  soft,  tremulous 
smile  — I  could  have  hated  her ! 


6o         FIGURES   FAMED    IN   FICTION 

"No  wonder  you  do  not  see  us,  Miss  March. 
Mr.  Halifax  is  very  ill  —  is  almost  dying." 

I  hurled  the  words  at  her  like  javeHns,  and  watched 
them  strike.     I  could  see  her  shiver. 

"  111  ?    And  no  one  ever  told  me ! " 

"You!  How  could  it  affect  you!  But  me!  It 
is  life  or  death!"  And  then  I  let  loose  the  flood  of 
my  misery;  I  dashed  it  over  her.  She  shuddered, 
terror-stricken.  We  must  have  further  medical 
aid,  she  said.     Was  there  nothing  she  could  do? 

"Nay!  Nay!  It  is  not  his  body,  it  is  his  mind. 
Oh,  Miss  March!"  and  I  looked  up  at  her  like  a 
wretch  begging  for  life,  "do  you  not  know  of  what 
my  brother  is  dying?" 

"Dying!"  she  repeated,  and  a  long  shudder  went 
through  her.  What  I  said  more  I  know  not,  but 
she  began  to  understand.  A  deep  color  came  all 
over  her  face  and  neck.  She  looked  at  me  just  once, 
with  a  mute  but  keen  inquiry. 

"It  is  the  truth.  Miss  March,  ever  since  last 
year.     You  will  respect  it;  you  must;  you  shall." 

She  bent  her  head  in  silence.  I  asked  her  for  a 
message  for  him.     Silent  still. 

It  made  me  desperate.  "And  such  a  man,"  I 
said,  "such  a  man!  Too  noble  a  man  is  he  to  die 
for  any  woman's  love."     And  I  left  her. 

I  found,  on  my  return,  a  change  had  come  over 
John.  "I  mean  to  be  quite  well  to-morrow,"  said 
he.  "You  would  smile  if  I  told  you  the  cause  of  it. 
I  dreamed  that  she  sat  right  there;  she  told  me  she 
knew  all  about  it,  but  that  I  must  not  die,  but  rise 


JOHN   HALIFAX  6i 

up  and  do  my  work  in  the  world  —  doing  it  for 
heaven's  sake,  not  for  hers.  And,  God  helping  me, 
I  will." 

Mrs.  Jessop  called  next  day  and  brought  a  note 
from  her.  She  wrote  that  she  did  not  know  he  had 
been  ill;  she  had  not  forgotten  all  his  kindness  to 
her  father,  and  might  she  come  and  see  him?  This 
was  all  the  note.  I  saw  it  more  than  thirty  years 
afterwards,  yellow  and  faded,  in  the  corner  of  his 
pocketbook. 

She  came  the  next  evening.  As  they  met  they 
did  not  speak;  but  when  I  saw  the  look  in  their 
eyes  I  knew  how  it  would  all  end. 

We  all  passed  a  pleasant  hour;  and  when,  later 
in  the  evening,  they  were  sitting  apart,  talking  of 
things  seemly — she  hoped  he  would  be  better  and 
grow  strong. 

"Thank  you,  I  have  need  for  strength." 

"And  you  will  have  what  you  need  to  do  your 
work  in  the  world;  you  must  not  be  afraid." 

He  spoke  of  going  to  America.  "I  have  reasons 
for  so  doing,"  he  said. 

"What  reasons?" 

"I  am  going  because  there  has  befallen  me  a 
great  trouble,  which,  while  I  stay  here,  I  cannot 
get  free  from  or  overcome.  It  is  the  only  way  to 
do  my  work  in  the  world — nay,  do  not  question. 
If  I  stay  here  I  shall  become  unworthy  of  myself. 
Forgive  me  for  speaking  thus,  but  you  have  called 
me  'friend,'  and  I  would  like  you  to  think  kindly  of 
me  always;  because,  because — "     Then   he  broke 


6:         FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

down  utterly.  "God  love  thee  and  take  care  of 
thee,  wherever  I  may  go." 

"John,  stay!" 

It  was  but  a  low,  faint  cry,  but  he  heard  it  in  his 
soul."  In  the  silence  of  the  dark  she  leaned  toward 
him,  and  he  took  her  into  the  shelter  of  his  love 
forevermore.  I  cannot  think  of  it,  even  to-day, 
without  the  joy  of  tears. 

They  were  out  gardening,  in  the  rear  of  their 
humble  home,  John  Halifax  and  his  wife.  They 
looked  so  young,  both  of  them.  He  kneeling,  plant- 
ing box-edging,  she  standing  by  him,  her  hand  on 
his  shoulder  —  the  hand  with  the  ring  on  it. 

He  welcomed  me  warmly,  and  so  did  she.  As 
she  slipped  away  into  the  house  soon  after,  John 
glanced  after  her  till  she  was  out  of  sight.  Then 
he  looked  at  me,  and  in  his  emotion  placed  his  hands 
upon  my  shoulders. 

"Art  thou  happy,  John?" 

"Ay!  lad,  almost  afraid  of  my  happiness.  God 
make  me  worthy  of  it  and  of  her."  She  returned, 
bringing  him  a  letter. 

"May  I?"  she  said,  peeping  over  as  he  read. 
For  answer  he  put  his  arm  about  her,  half  proudly, 
half  shyly.  It  was  beautiful  to  see  what  a  soft, 
meek  matronliness  had  come  over  her  high  spirit. 

It  was  a  letter  —  an  insulting  one — from  the 
squire,  her  executor,  withholding  her  fortune  because 
of  her  marriage.     And  they  discussed  it  all  so  bravely. 

"We  are  not  going  to  be  afraid  of  poverty  nor 


JOHN   HALIFAX  63 

ashamed  of  it, "  said  he.  "  We  consider  that  respect- 
ability Hes  solely  in  our  two  selves!"  And  she 
agreed  with  him  so  heartily,  tossing  her  head  in 
merry  defiance. 

"But,  no  more  silk  gowns?"  said  her  husband, 
half  fondly,  half  sadly. 

"You  would  not  be  so  rude  as  to  say  I  would 
not  look  equally  well  in  a  cotton  one.  And  as  for 
being  happy  in  it,  why,  I  know  best." 

He  smiled  at  her  once  more,  that  tender,  manly 
smile  which  made  all  soft  and  lustrous  the  inmost 
depths  of  his  brown  eyes.  Truly  no  woman  need 
be  afraid,  with  a  smile  like  that  to  be  the  strength, 
the  guidance,  the  sunshine  of  her  home. 

We  went  in,  and  she  showed  me  the  rooms.  As 
we  went  about  he  chanced  to  mention  his  mother's 
name. 

"You  never  told  me  about  her  and  your  father," 
said  she. 

"Dear,  there  was  little  to  tell.  And  you  knew 
you  were  to  marry  John  Halifax,  whose  parents 
left  him  nothing  but  his  name." 

"I  should  like  to  have  known  his  parents,"  she 
said,  when  John  had  left  the  room  for  a  moment. 
' '  But  still,  when  I  know  him —  "  She  smiled,  tossing 
back  the  coronet  of  curls  from  her  forehead  —  her 
proud,  pure  forehead,  that  would  have  worn  a 
coronet  of  jewels  more  meekly  than  it  now  wore  the 
unadorned  honor  of  being  John  Halifax's  wife.  I 
wish  he  could  have  seen  her  then! 

I  would  tell,  had  I  the  time,  of  his  growing  influence 


04         FIGURES  FAMED   IN   FICTION 

as  the  years  went  by;  how  respected  and  honored 
he  was  by  high  and  low;  how  people  came  to  him, 
time  and  again,  to  have  their  differences  settled 
instead  of  going  to  law.  His  wife  had  reason  to  be 
proud  of  him,  and  I  was  glad  it  turned  out  so. 

'  ■  See  how  he  is  consulted  and  his  opinion  followed 
by  rich  as  well  as  poor,"  said  she  to  me,  while  John 
sat  listening.  "I  am  sure  he  has  as  much  influence 
as  any  member  of  Parliament" — while  John  smiled 
and  said  nothing.  The  beauty  of  his  life  was  its 
unconsciousness  of  itself. 

As  for  Parliament,  let  me  tell  you  about  that. 
Lord  Luxmore  called  one  day — thinking  it  would  be 
well  to  make  friends  in  political  life  with  a  rising 
young  man  like  Halifax  —  and  offered  him  a  seat 
in  Parliament  from  one  of  the  rotten  boroughs  of 
that  time — a  merely  nominal  constituency.  "Mr. 
Halifax,  you  ought  to  be  in  Parliament;  will  you 
accept  my  borough  ? ' ' 

"No,  your  lordship,  not  on  any  consideration 
you  could  offer  me." 

"My  dear  sir!  I  am  confounded!  May  I  ask 
your  reason  ? ' ' 

"Certainly,  sir.  Until  political  conscience  ceases 
to  be  a  thing  of  traffic,  until  the  people  are  honestly 
allowed  to  choose  their  own  honest  representatives, 
I  must  decline  being  of  that  number.  Shall  we  dis- 
miss the  subject?" 

"The  Hon.  John  Halifax,  Member  of  Parliament." 
It  would  have  been  music  to  her  ears,  and  he  knew 
it.     He  was  human,  and  he  had  said  he  would  set 


JOHN  HALIFAX  65 

her  one  day  among  the  ladies  of  the  land.  But  the 
honor  that  comes  unworthily — he  would  none  of  it, 
nor,  indeed,  would  she  enjoy  it.  John  Halifax  was  a 
gentleman. 

His  business  prospered  as  the  years  went  by,  and 
he  came  to  be  the  largest  mill  owner  in  Enderly. 
What  a  father  he  was  to  the '  people  in  his  employ ! 
How  he  won  their  confidence,  and  how  implicitly 
they  trusted  in  the  mere  name  of  the  man  whom  all 
the  country  round  knew  as  "a  gentleman."  When 
the  great  panic  came,  and  there  were  suspicions  of  the 
bank,  and  the  "run"  upon  it  had  begun — shall  I 
ever  forget  the  time  when  John  Halifax  made  his 
way  through  the  crowd  of  excited,  ignorant,  clam- 
orous men  and  women? 

"Sir,"  said  he,  addressing  the  banker  and  speaking 
so  that  scores  could  hear  him,  "I  have  the  pleasure 
to  open  an  account  with  you.  I  feel  satisfied  that, 
in  these  dangerous  times,  no  credit  is  more  safe  than 
yours.  Allow  me  to  pay  in  to-day  the  sum  of 
five  thousand  pounds." 

Five  thousand  pounds!  It  went  from  mouth  to 
mouth,  and  the  bank  was  saved.  They  told  the 
story  the  length  of  Cornwall  and  Devon. 

His  kindness  to  the  poor,  his  love  of  justice,  his 
noble,  even  temper,  his  dignity,  his  wisdom  —  I 
might  tell  how  in  these  things  he  served  his  genera- 
tion. And  yet,  to  me  the  man  seemed  noblest  in 
his  home,  that  home  that  grew  more  and  more  like 
heaven  as  the  years  went  by.  A  sweeter,  steadier 
love  than  the  love  that  reigned  there  never  was  in 


66         FIGURES  FAIMED   IN   FICTION 

England.  I  can  see  Ursula,  even  now,  standing 
amidst  her  three  sons  with  the  smile  of  a  Cornelia — 
proud  of  her  jewels — and  I  can  see  her  husband's 
eyes  resting  on  her  with  that  quiet  perfectness  of 
love,  the  fullness  of  a  stream  that  knew  no  fall. 

And  so  I  say — what  I  have  heard  said  many, 
many  times — God  give  us  men  like  him,  men  of 
truth  and  honor  and  steadfast  mind;  men  like  him, 
on  whose  brow  Nature  herself  had  placed  the  seal, 
"This  is  a  gentleman." 


TOM  BROWN 

T  TE  was  a  regular  boy — not  one  of  the  goody 
-*-  "*-  sort,  I  promise  you,  but  abounding  in  animal 
spirits,  always  getting  into  no  end  of  scrapes,  and 
getting  out  of  them  if  he  could;  good  resolutions 
when  the  mood  was  on  him,  but  which  generally 
failed  to  blossom  out.  Full  of  honest  impulses, 
hatred  of  meanness,  contempt  of  cowardice,  loyalty 
to  his  friends,  and  thoughtlessness  enough  to  sink  a 
three-decker!  But  yet  at  bottom  sound;  made  of 
good  stuff  that  told  in  the  long  run. 

When,  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  he  was  sent  away 
from  home  to  school,  his  mother  doubted  if  he  were 
old  enough  to  travel  alone,  to  say  nothing  of  estab- 
lishing himself  in  the  strange  surroundings.  But 
Tom  thought  otherwise,  and  his  father  did  not 
object.  It  was  in  the  old  coaching  days,  and  at 
three  in  the  morning  he  was  to  take  the  tally-ho 
for  Rugby  at  the  Peacock  Inn.  The  squire,  his 
father,  took  counsel  with  himself  as  to  the  thing  to 
say  to  the  boy  by  way  of  parting  counsel. 

"I  won't  tell  him  to  read  his  Bible  and  serve  and 
love  God;  if  he  don't  do  that  for  his  mother's  sake 
and  teaching,  he  won't  for  mine.  I  won't  warn  him 
against  the  particular  sort  of  temptations  he'll  meet 
with;  he  won't  understand  me;  do  him  more  harm 
than  good,  ten  to  one.  Shall  I  tell  him  to  get  his 
lessons  well?     But  that  isn't  the  main  thing.     If 

6  67 


68         FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

he'll  only  turn  out  a  brave,  honest,  truthful  gentle- 
man and  a  Christian,  that's  all  I  want."  So  he 
said  to  him — 

"Now,  Tom,  my  boy,  you  are  going  to  be  chucked 
into  this  great  school,  like  a  young  bear  with  all  your 
troubles  before  you.  You'll  see  mean  things  done 
and  hear  bad  talk  now  and  then;  but  never  fear. 
Just  tell  the  truth,  keep  a  brave  and  kind  heart, 
and  never  listen  to  anything  or  say  anything  you 
would  n't  have  your  mother  and  sister  hear,  and 
you'll  never  feel  ashamed  to  come  home  or  we  to 
see  you." 

The  horn  of  the  coach  sounded  in  the  distance. 
Boots  looked  in,  calling  out,  "Tally-ho,  sir!"  and 
they  heard  the  rattle  and  the  ring  of  the  four  fast 
trotters  as  they  dashed  up  to  the  door. 

"Anything  for  us,  Bob?" 

"Yes;  young  gentleman  for  Rugby,  three  parcels 
for  Leicester,  hamper  of  game  for  Rugby." 

"All  right!  Tell  young  gent  to  look  alive.  Up 
with  you,  sir." 

"Good-by,  father!"  And  up  goes  Tom,  the  coach 
horn  sounds  again,  the  hostlers  let  go  the  horses, 
and  away  goes  the  tally-ho  into  the  darkness  forty- 
five  seconds  from  the  time  they  pulled  up. 

Three  hours  before  dawn,  and  the  air  is  frosty; 
no  joke  on  a  fast  coach  in  November  in  the  reign  of 
King  William.  Tom  becomes  chilled  through  and 
his  legs  are  numb ;  and  yet  it  had  its  pleasures  even 
for  him,  the  dark,  romantic  ride  in  the  cold.  There 
was  the  consciousness  of  silent  endurance,  so  dear 


TOM  BROWN  69 

to  every  Englishman,  even  a  young  one,  of  standing 
out  against  something  and  not  giving  in.  Then 
there  was  the  music  of  the  rattHng  harness  and  the 
ring  of  the  horses'  feet  on  the  hard  road,  and  the 
occasional  sounding  of  the  guard's  horn,  not  to  speak 
of  the  breaking  of  the  dawn  and  the  sunrise.  It  was 
all  so  new  to  Tom!  And  a  boy  likes  change  and 
action;  only,  now  and  then,  he  fell  to  speculating 
on  what  kind  of  a  place  Rugby  was,  and  what  kind 
of  fellows  the  boys  would  be. 

' '  And  so  here 's  Rugby,  sir,  at  last ! ' '  And  the  guard 
sounded  his  horn,  the  coachman  shook  up  his  horses, 
and  in  they  went,  past  the  school  gates  and  the 
grounds  and  down  High  Street  to  the  Spread  Eagle, 
the  wheelers  in  a  spanking  trot  and  the  leaders 
cantering.  Tom's  heart  beat  quick  as  he  passed 
the  school  buildings  and  saw  the  boys  all  about, 
looking  as  if  the  town  belonged  to  them. 

One  of  them  ran  out  from  the  rest  and  scrambled 
up  behind;  after  looking  Tom  over  for  a  minute  he 
began,  "I  say,  you  fellow,  is  your  name  Brown?" 

"Yes,"  said  Tom,  considerably  astonished,  yet 
rather  glad  to  find  some  one  who  seemed  to  know 
him. 

"Ah!  I  thought  so.  My  name's  East.  You  know 
my  old  aunt;  she  lives  down  your  way  somewhere. 
She  wrote  me  that  you  were  coming  to-day,  and 
asked  me  to  give  you  a  lift." 

Tom  didn't  like  this  patronizing  tone;  but  the 
transcendent  coolness  and  assurance  of  the  fellow — 
he  couldn't  for  the  life  of  him  help  admiring  it. 


70         FIGURES  FAMED   IN   FICTION 

Especially  as  he  said  to  one  of  the  porters,  "Look 
here,  Cooey,  take  Brown's  luggage  up  to  the  school 
for  sixpence  ?  And  hearkee,  it  must  be  in  ten  minutes 
or  no  more  jobs  from  me!  Come  along,  Brown!" 
and  away  he  swaggered  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 
Frank,  hearty,  goodnatured,  chock  full  of  life  and 
animal  spirits,  and  acquainted  with  all  the  ropes  — 
Tom  felt  himself  immediately  on  the  best  of  terms 
with  him. 

East  showed  Tom  to  his  room;  then,  at  the  dinner 
bell,  they  went  down  to  the  big  hall  and  the  boys 
came  pouring  in.  After  dinner  East  proposed  a 
look  at  the  great  playground. 

"That's  the  chapel,  you  see,"  he  said,  "and  there 
just  behind  it  is  the  place  for  fights.  It 's  the  most 
out  of  the  way  of  the  masters,  you  see.  Over  beyond 
the  trees  is  the  great  football  ground.  I  say,  it's 
horrid  cold;  let's  have  a  run  across,"  and  away  he 
went,  Tom  close  behind  him.  East  was  evidently 
up  to  it  to  show  what  he  could  do,  and  Tom,  bound 
to  show  that  he  had  the  gimp  in  him  if  he  was  a  new 
boy,  laid  himself  down  to  the  work  in  his  very  best 
style,  and  there  was  n't  a  yard  between  them  when 
they  pulled  up. 

"Well,"  said  East  as  soon  as  he  got  his  wind,  and 
looking  with  much  increased  respect  at  Tom,  "you 
ain't  a  bad  scud,  not  by  no  means.  I  say,  do  you 
play  football?" 

"Well,  I  should  say!"  said  Tom. 
But  you  '11  find  it  no  joke  playing  it  here,  now  I 
tell  ye.     Why,  there's  been  two  collar  bones  broken 


TOM  BROWN  71 

this  year,  and  a  dozen  fellows  lamed;  and  last  year 
a  fellow  had  his  leg  broken.  There's  to  be  a  game 
this  afternoon." 

It  was  old-time  football,  with  three  hundred  in 
the  fight.  Tom  stood  with  one  of  the  goal  keepers, 
watching  the  rushes  and  the  scrimmage  and  the 
plunges,  waiting  for  his  chance  if  it  should  only  come. 
Soon  it  came.  The  ball  rolled  slowly  near  him,  and 
directly  in  front  of  a  column  of  the  opposition.  Now 
is  his  time ;  his  blood  is  up  and  he  throws  himself  on 
the  ball,  the  other  boys  piling  on. 

"Our  ball!"  says  Tom's  captain.  "But  get  up 
there!    The  little  fellow's  under  you." 

The  captain  picked  Tom  up,  the  wind  fairly 
knocked  out  of  him. 

"Stand  back,  and  give  him  air!  No  bones 
broken,"  feeling  his  limbs.  "How  do  you  feel, 
young  un?" 

"Hah — hah!"  gasped  Tom  as  his  wind  came  back, 
"Pretty  well,  thank  you — all  right!  " 

"Who  is  he?"  asked  the  captain. 

"Oh,  it's  Brown;  he's  a  new  boy;  I  know  him," 
said  East,  coming  up. 

"Well,"  said  the  captain,  "he 's  a  plucky  youngster 
and  will  make  a  good  player."  Which  was  all  the 
reward  that  Tom  could  ask  for. 

"I  say,  Tom,"  said  East  that  night  after  chapel, 
"were  you  ever  tossed  in  a  blanket?" 

"No,"  said  Tom;  "why?" 

"  'Cause  there'll  be  tossing  to-night,  most  likely. 
So,  if  you  funk,  you   can   come   along   and  hide, 


73         FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

or  else  the  big  boys  will  catch  you  and  toss  you." 

"Look  here,  East,"  said  Tom  as  they  reached  their 
room,  "I  shan't  hide." 

"Very  well,  old  fellow;  no  more  shall  I." 

Soon  in  came  a  half-dozen  strapping  fellows. 
There  were  a  dozen  beds  in  the  room,  but  the  little 
boys  were  all  hidden  except  East  and  Tom  in  the 
farther  end.  They  began  to  snake  them  out  from 
under  the  beds,  amid  cries  for  mercy  and  so  on. 

"Now  hold,"  said  one.  "You  know  the  Doctor 
don't  like  this  bullying;  and  so  I  '11  be  hanged  if  we'll 
toss  any  one  against  his  will." 

"There's  plenty  of  them  that  don't  care,"  said 
another.  Here's  East — you'll  be  tossed,  won't 
you,  young  un?" 

"And  here's  another  who  didn't  hide.  Hullo! 
new  boy,  what's  your  name?" 

"Brown." 

"Well,  Whitey  Brown,  you  don't  mind  being 
tossed?" 

"No!"  said  Brown,  setting  his  teeth. 

Off  they  went  with  them  to  a  large  room.  Then 
a  dozen  big  boys  seized  hold  of  a  blanket,  and  taking 
Tom,  they  chucked  him  in.  "All  ready!"  and  up 
he  went  like  a  shuttle-cock,  slap!  to  the  ceiling! 
The  moment's  pause  before  descending  was  the  rub 
—  the  feeling  of  utter  helplessness,  the  not  knowing 
where  he  was  going  to.  He  almost  cried  out,  but 
the  next  instant  found  himself  in  the  blanket,  and 
so  he  didn't;  but  took  his  three  tosses  without  a 
kick  or  a  cry,  and  was  called  a  young  trump  for  his 


TOM   BROWN  73 

pains.  And  so  they  went  on  with  some  others,  and 
Tom  stood  and  watched  them.  And  when  he  re- 
tired to  rest  that  night  he  considered  that  he  had 
had  quite  a  day  of  it  for  the  first  one  in  his  new  Hfe. 

Next  day  was  Sunday.  At  a  quarter  of  eleven 
the  chapel  bell  rang,  and  then  came  that  great  event 
in  Tom's  life — as  in  every  Rugby  boy's  life  of  that 
day — the  first  sermon  from  Doctor  Arnold. 

I  am  not  going  to  preach  the  sermon  over  again; 
but  I  can  tell  you  it  was  just  the  sort  of  sermon  to 
win  a  boy,  heart  and  soul.  There  he  stood,  the  tall, 
gallant  form,  the  kindling  eye,  the  voice — now  soft 
as  the  low  notes  of  a  flute,  now  clear  and  stirring 
as  the  blast  of  the  Light  Infantry  bugle.  But  what 
was  it  that  moved  and  held  us,  three  hundred  reck- 
less, childish  boys,  who  feared  the  Doctor  with  all 
our  hearts,  and  very  little  in  heaven  or  earth  besides ; 
who  thought  more  of  our  sets  in  the  school  than  of 
the  Church  of  Christ,  and  put  the  traditions  of 
Rugby  above  the  laws  of  God  ?  We  could  n't  take 
in  the  half  that  we  heard;  but  we  listened,  as  all 
boys  in  their  better  moods  will  listen  to  a  manly 
man,  one  whom  we  felt  to  be,  with  all  his  heart  and 
soul  and  strength,  striving  against  whatever  was 
mean  and  unmanly  and  unrighteous  in  our  little 
world.  And  so,  slowly,  but  surely  and  steadily 
on  the  whole,  was  brought  home  to  the  young  boy 
the  meaning  of  his  life;  that  it  was  no  fool's  or  slug- 
gard's paradise  into  which  he  had  wandered  by 
chance,  but  a  battlefield  ordained  from  of  old,  where 
the  youngest  must  take  his  side,  and  the  stakes 


7.|         FIGURES  FAMED   IN   FICTION 

are  life  and  deatli.  And  the  preacher  showed  them, 
too,  by  his  whole  daily  life,  how  that  battle  was  to 
be  fought,  standing  before  them  their  fellow-soldier 
and  the  captain  of  their  band — a  captain  who  had 
no  misgivings  and  gave  no  uncertain  word  of  com- 
mand, and,  let  who  would  yield  or  make  a  truce, 
would  fight  the  fight  out  to  the  last.  It  was  this 
thoroughness  and  gallantry  and  undaunted  courage 
which  won  his  way  to  the  hearts  of  the  great  army 
of  those  boys  on  whom,  first  and  last,  he  left  his 
mark,  and  made  them  believe,  first  in  him  and 
then  in  his  Master. 

Tom  was  fascinated  by  him.  And  during  his 
first  two  years  of  the  school,  when  it  was  more  than 
doubtful  whether  he  would  get  good  or  evil  from  it, 
and  before  any  steady  purpose  grew  up  within  him, 
whatever  his  week's  shortcomings  might  have  been 
he  hardly  ever  left  the  chapel  on  Sundays  without 
a  serious  resolve  to  stand  by  and  follow  the  Doctor 
in  everything,  and  a  sneaking  feeling  also  that  it 
was  only  cowardice  that  hindered  him. 

In  their  first  years  at  Rugby,  East  and  Tom 
were  fair  specimens  of  the  mischievous  and  reckless 
age  of  British  youth.  They  were  as  full  of  tricks 
as  monkeys  and  as  full  of  excuses  as  Irish  women. 
Making  fun  of  their  masters,  of  one  another,  and 
of  their  lessons,  Argus  himself  would  have  been 
puzzled  to  keep  an  eye  on  them;  and  as  for  making 
them  steady  or  serious  for  half  an  hour  together. 
it  was  simply  hopeless. 

Tom  had  come  up  from  the  third  grade — his  first 


TOM   BROWN  75 

half  year — with  a  fairly  good  character,  but  the 
mischief  that  ran  riot  in  the  fourth  proved  too  much 
for  him,  and  he  was  soon  as  much  of  a  scapegrace 
as  any  of  them.  He  and  East  would  attempt  almost 
anything  that  was  against  the  rules,  simply  because 
it  was  against  the  rules,  and  out  of  pure  love  of 
adventure. 

In  the  large  schoolroom  there  stood  in  one  corner 
a  wide  desk  which  would  hold  four  boys.  On  a 
platform  three  steps  high,  above  the  rest  of  the 
room,  there  was  such  a  hot  contest  to  secure  and 
occupy  it  that,  finally,  its  use  was  forbidden  al- 
together. This  of  course  acted  as  a  challenge  to 
the  daring  ones,  and  as  two  boys  could  easily  hide 
behind  it,  there  was  no  end  of  fun.  Small  holes 
were  cut  in  the  front  through  which  the  occupants 
watched  the  master  as  he  walked  up  and  down, 
and,  as  recitation  time  approached,  one  boy  at  a 
time  stole  out  and  down  the  steps,  as  the  master's 
back  was  turned,  and  mingled  with  the  rest. 

Tom  and  East  had  occupied  the  desk  some  half- 
dozen  times,  and  were  grown  so  reckless  that  they 
were  in  the  habit  of  playing  games  of  five-balls 
inside,  when  the  master  was  at  the  end  of  the  big 
room.  One  day,  as  ill  luck  would  have  it,  the  game 
became  more  exciting  than  usual,  and  the  ball 
slipped  through  East's  fingers  and  rolled  down  the 
steps  and  out  into  the  middle  of  the  schoolroom, 
just  as  the  master  turned  in  his  walk  and  faced 
round  upon  the  desk.  The  young  scamps  watched 
through  the  lookout  holes  and  saw  the  master  march 


76         FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

slowly  down  uiK)n  their  retreat,  while  all  the  boys 
stopped  their  work  to  look  on;  and  not  only  were 
they  ignominious] y  drawn  out  and  caned  then  and 
there,  but  their  characters  for  steadiness  were  gone 
from  that  time. 

And  a  character  for  steadiness  in  a  school  once 
gone  is  not  easily  recovered,  as  Tom  found,  and  for 
a  year  or  two  afterward  he  went  up  to  the  school 
without  it,  and  the  masters'  hands  were  against  him 
and  his  against  them,  and  he  came  to  regard  them 
as  his  natural  enemies. 

In  those  early  days  at  Rugby  there  was  a  practice 
among  the  boys  which  occasioned  no  little  friction, 
known  as  "fagging."  Many  of  the  upper  classmen 
would  lay  claim,  each  to  one  or  more  of  the  new 
boys  to  perform  certain  menial  duties,  in  return 
for  which  they  were  supposed  to  receive  protection 
and  counsel,  w^hich  they  never  got.  The  custom 
ran  into  abuses,  and  was  abolished  in  later  years. 

Fl ashman  was  seventeen  years  old,  and  big  and 
strong  for  his  age.  He  would  pitch  upon  Tom  and 
East  to  fetch  his  hat  or  black  his  boots  or  sweep  his 
room,  and  was  unbearably  domineering  and  oppres- 
sive. There  w^as  a  growing  disposition  to  revolt 
against  his  tyranny  and  that  of  his  set. 

"Look  here.  East,"  said  Tom,  "I  won't  stand 
this  any  longer.  I've  made  up  my  mind  that  I 
won't  fag  for  these  fellows." 

"Quite  right,  my  boy,"  said  East,  "but  a  pretty 
peck  of  troubles  you'll  get  into  if  you're  going  to 
play  that  game.     The  bother  is,  you  can't  get  others 


TOM   BROWN  77 

to  join.  But  if  we  only  can,  I'm  in  for  revolution 
and  independence." 

"Well,  I  know  one  thing;  that  blackguard  Flash - 
man,  I  '11  never  fag  for  him  again,"  said  Tom,  thump- 
ing the  table. 

Just  then,  "F-a-a-g!"  called  Flashman  from  his 
study.  The  two  boys  looked  at  each  other  in 
silence.  East  began  to  look  comical,  as  he  always 
did  under  difficulties. 

"F-a-a-g!"  again. 

No  answer. 

"Here,  Brown!  East!  You  young  skulks,  I 
know  you're  in.     No  shirking." 

Tom  stole  to  the  door  and  drew  the  bolts.  East 
blew  out  the  candle. 

"Now,  Tom,"  said  he,  "mind,  no  surrender ! " 

"Trust  me  for  that,"  said  Tom,  betweeen  his  teeth. 

Then  followed  an  assault  on  the  door,  slam !  bang ! 
with  kicks  and  calls.  The  door  was  damaged,  but 
resisted,  while  East  and  Tom  held  their  breath  and 
set  their  teeth.  Finally  the  besiegers  gave  it  up, 
and  our  heroes  had  a  respite. 

Later  they  talked  it  over  in  the  hall  with  the  other 
boys,  and  some  were  for  consulting  the  upper  class- 
men, those  of  them  who  cared  little  for  the  custom, 

"I'll  give  you  fellows  a  piece  of  advice,"  said  a 
voice  from  the  end  of  the  hall.  They  all  turned 
round  with  a  start.  The  speaker — "Diggs"  they 
called  him — a  big,  loose-made  fellow,  got  up  and 
shook  himself.  "Don't  you  go  for  anybody's 
advice.     You  just  stand  out  and  say  you  won't 


78         FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

fag.       They'll    soon    get    tired    of    licking    you." 

The  young  fellows  were  grateful  for  his  advice, 
and  decided  to  follow  it.  Flashman,  however,  made 
life  a  burden  to  them.  Finding  Tom  and  East  in 
the  hall  one  day,  he  ordered  them  off,  and  struck 
one  of  them  because  they  did  not  move ;  and  the  war 
of  words  waxed  warm. 

"I  say,  you  two,"  said  Diggs,  who  had  entered 
the  hall  at  the  other  end,  "you'll  never  get  rid  of 
that  fellow  till  you  lick  him.  Go  at  him,  both  of 
you.     I  '11  see  fair  play." 

The  two  deliberated  a  moment,  and  finally  got 
up  pluck  and  went  in.  Flashman  called  them  all 
the  blackguard  names  he  could  think  of,  and  the 
two  pummeled  him  wherever  they  could  hit  him. 
But  he  was  big  and  strong,  and  soon  Tom  went 
spinning  over  backward.  As  Flashman  tackled  East 
alone,  Diggs  interfered  to  see  fair  play. 

"What  is  it  to  you?"  growled  Flashman. 

"I'm  going  to  see  fair  play,  I  tell  you.  'T  is  n't 
fair  for  you  to  be  fighting  one  at  a  time.  Ready, 
Brown?     Time's  up." 

And  at  it  they  went  again.  While  Flashman 
grasped  East  by  the  throat,  Tom  got  him  by  the 
waist  and,  remembering  a  throw  he  had  learned, 
crooked  his  leg  inside  Flashman's,  threw  his  whole 
weight  forward,  and  over  they  went,  all  three,  Flash- 
man  striking  his  head  against  one  of  the  benches. 

Tom  was  scared  out  of  his  wits.  "Oh,  he 's  bleed- 
ing a^-f ully ,  Diggs !    He 's  dying ! ' ' 

"Not  he,"  said  Diggs,  coming  up  leisurely.     "It's 


TOM  BROWN  79 

all  sham;  he's  afraid  to  fight  it  out,  that's  all." 

And  so  it  proved.  After  making  a  great  fuss, 
the  bully  walked  off,  surly  enough. 

"You  shall  pay  for  this,  I  can  tell  you,  both  of 
you!"  But  they  never  did,  for  he  never  laid  finger 
on  either  of  them  again. 

Well,  it  was  a  righteous  cause,  and  the  decent 
boys  in  the  upper  classes  couldn't  help  feeling  so; 
and  yet  they  could  n't  quite  pardon  East  and  Tom, 
the  ringleaders  in  the  revolt.  "Confoundedly  coxey 
those  young  rascals  will  get,  if  we  don't  mind,"  was 
the  general  feeling.  The  result  was  that  East  and 
Tom  and  one  or  two  more  became  a  sort  of  young 
Ishmaelites,  their  hand  against  every  one  and  every 
one's  hand  against  them. 

And  so  it  is  always.  If  the  angel  Gabriel  should 
come  down  from  heaven  and  head  a  revolt  against 
the  most  unrighteous  vested  interest  which  this 
poor  old  world  groans  under  he  would  most  probably 
lose  his  character  with  a  great  many  respectable 
people.  They  would  n't  ask  him  to  dinner  or  be 
seen  on  the  street  with  him.  What  can  we  expect, 
then,  when  we  have  only  poor,  gallant,  blundering 
men  like  Kossuth,  Garibaldi,  Mazzini;  men  who 
have  holes  enough  in  their  armor,  God  knows,  easy 
to  be  hit  by  respectabilities  sitting  in  their  easy- 
chairs  and  having  large  balances  at  their  bankers. 
But  you,  brave,  gallant  boys,  who  hate  easy-chairs 
and  have  no  balances  or  bankers,  you  only  need  to 
have  your  heads  set  right  in  order  to  take  the  right 
side;  so  bear  in  mind  that  majorities,   egpecially 


So         FIGURES  FAMED   IN   FICTION 

respectable  ones,  are  nine  times  out  of  ten  in  the 
wrong ;  and  that  if  ever  you  see  a  man  or  a  boy  striv- 
ing earnestly  on  the  weak  side,  however  wrong- 
headed  or  blundering  he  may  be,  you  are  not  to  go 
and  join  in  the  cry  against  him.  Remember  he  is 
doing  —  in  his  own  way — what  you  ought  to  do; 
namely,  he  has  found  something  in  the  world  which 
he  will  fight  for  and  suffer  for. 

I  cannot  stop  to  tell  of  the  series  of  scrapes  which 
Tom  now  managed  to  tumble  into — about  his  fish- 
ing where  it  was  forbidden,  and  how  the  under  keeper 
threatened  him,  suspecting  something  wrong;  and 
how  Tom,  forgetting  that  a  boy  ought  to  be  a  gentle- 
man, called  him  "Old  Velveteens,"  and  set  the  boys 
laughing  at  him;  and  how  the  aforesaid  keeper 
actually  caught  Tom  one  day  up  a  tree  where  he 
had  hidden  as  he  saw  him  coming.  And  when  the 
keeper  took  him  before  the  Doctor — well,  Tom 
never  forgot  the  flogging  he  got  next  morning. 

And  it  wasn't  three  weeks  before  Tom — and 
East  with  him — were  in  the  terrible  presence  again. 
In  one  of  the  games  several  new  balls  were  lost  on 
the  roof  of  the  great  school  building.  The  two  boys 
put  their  heads  together  to  climb  there  somehow; 
and  when  there  they  scratched  their  names  on  the 
tower,  and  also — as  it  took  their  fancy — on  the 
minute  hand  of  the  tower  clock,  in  doing  which 
they  held  the  minute  hand.  This  disturbed  the 
clock's  economy,  and  next  morning  half  the  school 
was  late.  Investigation  showed  the  two  names  on 
the  minute  hand,  and  the  offenders  got  thirty  lines 


TOM  BROWN  8i 

of  Homer  to  learn  by  heart,  and  a  lecture  on  the 
likelihood  of  such  exploits  ending  in  broken  bones. 

And  almost  the  next  day  came  another.  The 
Annual  Rugby  Fair  had  opened,  and  the  Doctor 
gave  out  that  no  boy  was  to  go  down  town.  Where- 
fore East  and  Tom,  for  no  earthly  pleasure  except 
that  of  doing  what  they  were  told  not  to  do,  started 
away,  making  a  wide  circuit  through  the  fields,  and 
ran  plump  into  one  of  the  masters  as  they  emerged 
into  the  street,  were  taken  to  the  Doctor,  and  got 
another  flogging. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  said  the  Doctor  to  one 
of  the  masters,  "about  two  boys  in  your  room,  East 
and  Brown.  I  have  just  been  giving  them  a  lecture. 
What  do  you  think  of  them?" 

"Well,  they  are  not  hard  workers  and  are  very 
thoughtless  and  full  of  spirits;  but  I  cannot  help 
liking  them.  I  think  they  are  good,  sound  fellows 
at  bottom." 

"I  am  glad  of  it;  I  think  so  too,  but  they  make 
me  very  uneasy.  I  should  be  sorry  to  lose  them, 
but  I  shall  not  allow  them  to  remain  in  the  school 
if  I  do  not  see  them  gaining  in  character  and  man- 
liness. In  another  year  they  may  do  great  harm 
among  the  younger  boys." 

"I  think,"  said  the  master,  "if  either  of  them  had 
some  small  boy  to  care  for,  it  would  steady  them. 
Brown  is  the  more  reckless  of  the  two.  East  would 
not  get  into  so  many  scrapes  without  him." 

At  the  beginning  of  the  next  year  came  the  turning 
point  in  the  school  life  of  our  hero. 

6 


82         FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

"Oh,  Master  Brown,"  said  the  little  matron, 
"you're  to  have  that  nice  study  this  year  that  you 
wanted,  and  Mrs.  Arnold  says  she  wants  you  to 
take  in  this  little  fellow.  He's  a  new  boy,  and  not 
ver>'  strong,  and  he  has  never  been  away  from  home 
before." 

Tom  was  rather  put  about  by  this  speech.  Not 
to  have  East  for  a  chum !  Where  were  all  his  plans 
of  night-lines  and  slings  for  getting  bottled  beer  up 
through  his  window?  What  about  the  night  expedi- 
tions—  just  for  the  fun  of  it,  you  know — and  so 
on  and  so  on  ?  Why,  life  would  be  pretty  tame  with 
this  fellow  tied  to  him.  He  looked  across  the  large 
room  and  saw  the  slight,  pale  boy  with  his  blue 
eyes  and  fair  hair  who  seemed  so  ill  at  ease  in  his 
new  surroundings. 

The  matron  watched  him,  and  skillfully  threw 
in  an  appeal  to  his  heart.  "Poor  little  fellow,"  she 
whispered,  "his  father's  dead  and  he's  got  no 
brothers.  And  his  mother,  such  a  sweet  lady, 
almost  broke  her  heart  at  leaving  him  this  morn- 
ing." 

"Well,  well,"  burst  in  Tom  with  something  of  a 
sigh  at  the  effort,  "I  suppose  I  must  give  up  East. 
Come  along,  young  un!    What's  your  name?" 

"His  name  is  George  Arthur,"  said  the  matron, 
walking  up  to  him  with  Tom.  "And  Mrs.  Arnold 
told  me  to  say,"  she  added,  "that  you  were  to  come 
up  and  take  tea  with  her  this  evening." 

Here  was  an  announcement  for  Master  Tom! 
Instead   of   being   regarded   as   the   most   reckless 


TOM  BROWN  83 

young  scapegrace  in  the  lot,  he  was  treated  as  of 
some  consequence.  He  felt  himself  lifted  to  a  higher 
social  and  moral  platform. 

"Hullo,  Brown!  Where  do  you  come  from?" 
was  the  shout  an  hour  later  as  he  and  Arthur  entered 
the  hall. 

"Oh,  I've  been  to  tea  with  the  Doctor,"  says 
Tom,  with  great  dignity. 

"My  eye!"  cried  East.  "So  that's  why  Mary 
called  you  back." 

"I  say,  young  fellow,"  said  another,  detecting 
Arthur  and  catching  him  by  the  collar,  "  what 's  your 
name  ?   Where  do  you  live  ?  How  old  are  you  ? ' ' 

Tom  saw  Arthur  shrink  back,  but  thought  it  best 
to  let  him  answer  for  himself. 

"My  name  is  Arthur,  sir;  I  come  from  Devon- 
shire." 

"Don't  call  me  'sir,'  you  young  muff.  How  old 
are  you  ?     Can  you  sing  ? ' ' 

The  boys  crowded  around,  and  the  poor  fellow 
was  trembling  and  hesitating,  when  Tom  struck  in: 
' '  You  be  hanged,  Tadpole.  There  '11  be  time  enough 
for  you  to  find  out  about  him.  He's  my  chum, 
and  we  have  n't  had  a  look  at  our  room  yet.  Come 
along,  Arthur." 

"What  a  queer  chum  for  Tom  Brown,"  was  the 
comment  after  they  had  gone. 

There  were  twelve  beds  in  each  of  the  sleeping 
rooms.  That  night  when  the  boys  were  preparing 
for  bed  Arthur  seemed  embarrassed  by  the  novel 
situation.    Everybody  was  talking  and  laughing. 

6 


84         FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

Finally  Arthur  was  ready  for  oed,  and  looked  around 
Inni  nervously.  It  was  a  trying  time  for  the  little 
fellow,  but  a  moment  later  he  knelt  at  his  bedside, 
as  he  had  done  every  day  from  his  childhood.  A 
sudden  silence  fell  upon  the  room.  Tom's  back 
was  toward  Arthur,  and  he  looked  up,  wondering 
what  was  the  matter.  Then  two  or  three  boys 
laughed  and  sneered,  and  one  big,  brutal  fellow 
picked  up  a  slipper  and  shied  it  at  the  kneeling  boy, 
calling  him  a  sniveling  young  shaver.  Then  Tom 
saw  the  whole,  and  the  next  moment  the  boot  he 
had  just  pulled  off  flew  straight  at  the  head  of  the 
bully,  who  had  just  time  to  throw  up  his  arm  and 
catch  it  on  his  elbow. 

"Confound  you.  Brown,  what's  that  for?  What 
do  you  mean?"  he  roared,  stamping  with  pain. 

"No  matter  what  I  mean,"  said  Tom,  stepping 
on  to  the  floor,  every  drop  in  his  body  tingling.  ' '  If 
any  fellow  wants  the  other  boot,  he  knows  how  to 
get  it!" 

What  the  result  might  have  been  is  doubtful,  but 
the  janitor  came  in  to  put  out  the  candle,  punctual 
as  the  clock,  and  no  more  could  be  said. 

There  were  many  boys  in  the  room  by  whom  that 
little  scene  was  taken  to  heart  before  they  slept. 
And  Tom!  He  could  not  sleep  for  the  flood  of 
memories  in  his  brain.  There  was  his  promise  to 
his  mother  never  to  omit  his  evening  devotions. 
He  had  kept  it  for  a  while,  getting  up  quietly  after 
the  Hghts  were  out,  but  he  had  gradually  given  it 
up.     He  thought  about  it,  troubled  and  unresting, 


TOM   BROWN  85 

and  finally — poor  Tom! — he  just  cried  as  if  his 
heart  would  break.  The  bitterest  thing  in  it  all 
was  the  sense  of  his  own  cowardice.  The  very 
thing  which  he  despised  most  utterly,  he  himself  was 
guilty  of.  And  he  could  not  go  to  sleep  that  night 
without  resolving  that  he  would  begin  straight  and 
fair  the  next  morning.  And  when  the  morning 
came  and  his  toilet  was  finished,  in  the  face  of  the 
whole  room  he  knelt  by  his  bedside.  His  mind  was 
confused,  he  could  think  of  little  to  say;  but  he 
arose  comforted  and  humble  and  ready  to  face  the 
whole  world.  For  the  lesson  had  already  come  to 
him  that  he  who  has  conquered  his  own  coward 
spirit  is  ready  to  conquer  everything  beside. 

The  effect  produced  upon  the  boys  was  remark- 
able. All  but  three  or  four  of  them  followed  the 
good  example  thus  set  them.  If  there  was  any 
tendency  on  the  part  of  the  careless  ones  to  laugh 
or  sneer,  it  soon  passed.  I  fear  that  this  was  in 
some  measure  due  to  the  fact  that  Tom  could  prob- 
ably have  thrashed  any  boy  in  the  room;  at  any 
rate,  the  boys  knew  he  would  try  upon  very  slight 
provocation,  and  they  did  n't  choose  to  run  the  risk 
of  a  fight  just  because  Tom  Brown  had  taken  a 
fancy  to  say  his  prayers. 

Well,  to  make  a  long  story  short,  Tom  stuck  to 
Arthur,  feeling  himself,  in  a  way,  responsible  for 
him.  He  watched  that  no  tricks  were  played  on 
him,  kept  the  bullies  off,  and  did  everything  to 
smooth  the  way  for  the  sensitive,  nervous  boy.  It 
was  difficult  work,  in  some  ways,  for  Arthur  did 


86         FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

not  thaw  out  easily,  was  very  timid  and  reserved; 
but  Tom  had  taken  up  the  work,  and  meant  to  see 
it  through. 

"Tom,"  East  would  say,  "you'll  spoil  Young 
Hopeful  w4th  too  much  coddling.  Why  don't  you 
let  him  go  it  alone?" 

"Well,  but  he  isn't  fit  to  fight  his  way  yet;  he's 
all  nerves,  and  things  here  are  new  to  him.  And 
yet,  once  in  a  w^hile,  a  fellow  can  see  that  he's  got 
pluck  in  him.  That's  the  only  thing  that'll  w^ash, 
ain't  it,  old  boy?  But  how  to  get  at  it  and  bring 
it  out!"  he  added  in  a  perplexed  tone,  taking  one 
hand  out  of  his  breeches  pocket,  and  sticking  it  in 
his  back  hair  for  a  scratch,  and  giving  his  hat  a  tilt 
over  his  nose,  his  one  method  of  invoking  wisdom. 

He  stared  at  the  ground  with  a  ludicrously  puzzled 
look,  and  presently  looked  up  and  met  East's  eyes. 
To  his  surprise  that  young  gentleman  slapped  him 
on  the  back  and  then  put  his  arm  around  his  shoulder 
as  they  strolled  through  the  grounds  together. 

"Tom,"  said  he,  "blest  if  you  ain't  the  best  old 
fellow  that  ever  was!  I  do  like  to  see  you  go  into 
a  thing.  Hang  it!  I  wish  I  could  take  things  as 
you  do — but  I  can  never  get  higher  than  a  joke. 
Everything's  a  joke.  Of  course,  if  I  was  going  to 
be  flogged  next  minute  I  should  be  in  a  blue  funk, 
but  I  could  n't  help  laughing  at  it  for  the  life  of  me." 

Now  it  gradually  grew  clear  to  Tom  that  this 
trust  which  he  had  taken  upon  himself,  this  care 
for  one  who  so  evidently  needed  it,  was  the  turning 
point  of  his  school  life.     The  fact  is  he  was  gradually 


TOM  BROWN  87 

becoming  a  new  boy,  though  with  frequent  tumbles 
into  the  dirt  and  perpetual  hard  battle  with  him- 
self. He  was  daily  growing  in  manliness  and 
thoughtfulness,  as  every  genuine  boy  must  when 
he  finds  himself  at  grips  with  himself  and  the  devil. 

I  am  going  to  give  you  a  fair  account  of  Tom's 
first  and  only  single  fight  during  his  sojourn  at 
Rugby.  I  confess  I  like  him  the  better  for  it;  and 
if  any  do  not,  why,  I  am  sorry  for  them.  It  came 
about  in  this  way.  The  regular  lesson  in  Homer 
was  forty  lines,  with  the  understanding  that  more 
was  to  be  read  if  there  was  time.  It  hardly  ever 
happened,  however,  that  they  got  beyond  the  forty. 
Arthur  was  a  faithful  student,  and  not  infrequently 
learned  more  than  the  usual  lesson.  One  day  the 
master  was  ill,  and  the  teacher  who  was  his  sub- 
stitute went  through  the  lesson  at  a  great  pace. 
Toward  the  close  he  called  on  Arthur,  who  read 
beyond  the  limit,  and  the  boys  devoutly  hoped  he 
would  occupy  the  remaining  minutes  of  the  hour. 
But  a  strange  thing  happened,  for  the  boy  was 
affected  to  tears  by  the  pathos  of  the  passage  — 
it  was  Helen's  lamentation — and  could  not  finish. 

The  boy  who  stood  next  to  Tom — "  Slogger  Wil- 
liams" they  called  him,  on  account  of  his  physical 
prowess — was  exceeding  wrathful.  * '  Sneaking  little 
brute ! "  he  muttered.  ' '  Turning  on  the  water- works 
in  the  hardest  place!  I'll  punch  his  head  after 
school." 

"Whose?"  said  Tom. 


8S         FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

"Why.  that  httle  sneak  Arthur's." 

"No,  you  won't,"  was  the  reply. 

"Hullo!"  whispered  Williams  back  again,  and 
gave  Tom  a  dig  with  his  elbow  which  sent  his  books 
flying  on  the  floor.     The  master  saw  it. 

"Williams,  go  down  three  places  and  read  on." 

' '  I  have  n't  learned  any  more,  sir.  The  lesson  is 
only  forty  lines." 

"Is  that  so?"  said  the  master.  The  boys  did 
not  answer.     "Arthur,  what  is  the  regular  lesson?" 

Arthur  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  said,  "We 
call  it  forty  lines,  sir." 

"How  do  you  mean,  'you  call  it'?" 

"Well,  sir,  the  master  says  we  are  not  to  stop 
there  when  there  is  time  to  read  more." 

"I  understand,"  said  the  master.  "Williams, 
you  may  go  down  three  more  places,  and  write  me 
out  the  lesson  in  Greek  and  English." 

"Oh,"  said  some  of  the  small  boys,  "I  wouldn't 
like  to  be  in  Arthur's  place  after  school." 

Tom  was  detained  a  moment  at  the  close,  and 
the  first  thing  he  saw  on  coming  out  was  a  ring 
of  boys,  and  Williams  holding  Arthur  by  the 
collar. 

"There!  You  young  sneak,"  giving  him  a  cufiE  on 
the  head,  "what  made  you  say  that?" 

"Hullo!"  said  Tom,  shouldering  into  the  crowd. 
"You  drop  that,  Williams!     You  shan't  touch  him." 

"Well,  who'll  stop  me?" 

"I  will!"  said  Tom,  striking  off  Williams's  arm 
from  Arthur. 


TOM   BROWN  89 

The  bully  turned  on  him.  "Look  here,  will  you 
fight?" 

"Yes,  of  course  I  will." 

"Huzzah!  There's  going  to  be  a  fight  between 
Slogger  Williams  and  Tom  Brown!" 

The  news  spread  like  wildfire. 

"Just  you  run  and  tell  East  to  come  and  back 
me,"  said  Tom  to  a  small  boy,  who  was  off  like  a 
rocket,  just  stopping  to  poke  his  head  into  the  dining 
hall  and  sing  out,  "Fight!  Tom  Brown  and  Slogger 
Williams!" 

They  all  congregated  back  of  the  chapel.  Tom 
felt  that  he  had  his  work  cut  out  for  him  as  he 
stripped  off  his  jacket,  waistcoat,  and  braces. 

"Now,  old  boy,"  said  East,  "don't  you  waste 
your  breath ;  we  '11  do  the  yelling.  You  save  all  your 
strength  for  the  Slogger." 

It  did  n't  look  like  a  fair  match,  for  Williams  was 
a  year  older  and  two  inches  taller.  But  they  made 
a  ring,  chose  a  timekeeper,  and  at  it  they  went. 
Tom  went  for  him,  hammer  and  tongs,  and,  as 
Slogger  was  the  stronger,  got  the  worst  of  it,  and  in 
the  second  round  was  hit  clean  off  his  legs. 

"Tom,  old  boy,"  whispered  East,  "this  may  be 
fun  for  you,  but  it's  death  to  me.  He'll  hit  all  the 
fight  out  of  you  in  another  five  minutes,  and  then 
I  shall  go  drown  myself  in  the  island  ditch.  Feint 
him,  use  your  legs,  draw  him  about;  then  he'll  lose 
his  wind  and  you  can  go  into  him." 

Tom  took  the  advice  and,  avoiding  his  antagonist, 
began  to  wind  him. 


go         FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

"All  right!"  whispered  East.  "Keep  your  head, 
old  boy,  and  you've  got  him." 

All  at  once  Tom  closed  with  his  man  and  threw 
him.  That  trick  he  knew  in  wrestling  was  a  sur- 
prise to  Williams,  and  he  began  to  get  nervous. 
They  had  pounded  each  other  somewhat,  and  Tom 
had  just  thrown  him  for  the  third  time,  when  "The 
Doctor!  The  Doctor!"  sung  out  a  small  boy,  who 
had  just  caught  sight  of  the  head  master.  And 
the  ring  melted  away  in  short  order,  the  two  com- 
batants and  their  friends  scattering  in  different 
directions. 

A  little  later  Brooke,  one  of  the  upper  classmen, 
sent  for  Tom,  who  found  him  and  some  of  his  class 
with  him  at  supper. 

"Well,  Brown,"  said  Brooke  nodding  to  him, 
"how  do  you  feel?" 

"Oh,  very  well,  thank  you;  only  I've  sprained 
my  thumb,  I  think." 

"Sure  to  do  that  in  a  fight.  Well,  you  had  the 
best  of  it,  I  could  see.  Where  did  you  learn  that 
throw?" 

"Oh,  down  in  the  country  when  I  was  a  boy." 

"Well,  well!  What  are  you  now?  But  never 
mind,  you're  a  plucky  fellow.  Sit  down  and  have 
some  supper." 

Tom  did  so,  nothing  loath,  I  can  assure  you.  He 
felt  as  if  he  had  grown  two  or  three  years  older 
within  two  hours.  He  ate  a  famous  supper,  drank 
beer,  and  had  a  great  time. 

As  he  got  up  to  leave,  Brooke  said,  "You  two 


TOM  BROWN  91 

must  shake  hands  in  the  morning.  Now  remember." 
And  so  they  did,  with  great  satisfaction  and 
mutual  respect.  And  for  the  next  two  or  three 
years,  whenever  fights  were  talked  of,  those  who 
had  been  present  shook  their  heads  wisely,  saying, 
"Ah !  but  you  should  just  have  seen  the  fight  between 
Slogger  Williams  and  Tom  Brown." 

And  now,  boys  all,  three  words  before  we  quit 
the  subject.  I  have  told  you  this  story  of  the  fight, 
partly  because  I  want  to  give  you  a  true  picture 
of  what  everyday  school  life  was  in  my  time,  and 
not  a  kid-glove-and-go-to-meeting  picture;  partly 
because  of  the  cant  and  twaddle  that's  talked  of 
boxing  and  fighting  with  fists  nowadays;  and  also 
because  I  would  like  to  leave  with  you  this  word 
of  advice.  Keep  out  of  fighting  if  you  can,  by  all 
means.  When  the  time  comes — if  ever  it  should — 
that  you  have  to  say  yes  or  no  to  a  challenge  to  fight, 
say  no  if  you  can — only  take  care  that  you  make  it 
clear  to  yourselves  why  you  say  no.  It  is  a  proof 
of  the  highest  courage  if  done  from  Christian  mo- 
tives. But  don't  say  no  simply  because  you  fear 
a  licking,  saying  or  thinking  that  it's  because  you 
fear  God,  for  that's  neither  Christian  nor  honest. 
And  if  you  do  fight,  fight  it  out;  and  don't  give  in 
while  you  can  stand  and  see. 

Tom  never  forgot  the  time  when  the  fever  was 
in  the  school  and  one  of  the  fellows  died,  and  Arthur 
himself  was  very  ill.  When  the  crisis  had  passed, 
and  Tom  was  permitted  to  see  him — how  like  an 
angel  he  looked,  with  his  white  face  and  golden  hair ; 


92         FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

and  how  Tom  loved  him !  He  realized  it  at  that  mo- 
ment as  he  never  did  before.  He  stole  across  the 
room  and  threw  his  arms  about  him.  They  talked 
about  the  school  and  the  boys  and  the  games  and 
how  things  had  gone.  "And  I'm  in  the  eleven,  old 
boy,  but  I  don't  care,  one  way  or  the  other,  now 
that  you  are  getting  well." 

"Tom,"  said  his  friend  after  a  little,  "will  you 
be  angry  if  I  talk  with  you  very  seriously?" 

"No,  dear  old  fellow,  not  I."  But,  all  the  same, 
he  talked  of  everything  under  the  sun  so  that  Arthur 
might  forget  his  exhortation. 

"Oh,  please,  Tom,  stop,  or  you'll  drive  all  I  had 
to  say  out  of  my  head.  But  I'm  so  afraid  I  shall 
make  you  angry." 

"Now  hold,"  said  Tom.  "You  know  you  never 
did  anger  me.  Now  I  'm  going  to  be  quite  sober 
for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  which  is  more  than  I  am 
once  in  a  year.  So  make  the  most  of  it;  heave 
ahead,  and  pitch  into  me,  right  and  left." 

"Dear  Tom,  I'm  not  going  to  pitch  into  you. 
And  it  seems  so  cocky  in  me  to  be  advising  you, 
who've  been  my  backbone  ever  since  I've  been  at 
Rugby,  and  have  made  the  school  a  paradise  for 
me.  Ah!  I  shall  never  do  it  unless  I  go  in  heels 
over  head  at  once.  Tom,  I  wish  you  would  give 
up  cribs  in  getting  out  the  lessons  in  translating." 

Tom  was  considerably  taken  aback.  He  leaned 
his  elbows  on  his  knees,  stuck  his  hands  into  his 
hair,  whistled  a  verse  of  "Billy  Taylor,"  and  then 
was  silent  for   another  minute.     Looking   up,   he 


TOM   BROWN  93 

caught  Arthur's  anxious  look  and  said  simply,  "Why, 
young  un?" 

"Because  you  are  the  honestest  boy  in  Rugby, 
and  that  is  n't  honest." 

Tom  argued  the  question,  but  it  was  useless.  He 
saw  that  Arthur  was  right;  but  how  to  get  along 
in  his  Greek  without  the  help  of  an  English  trans- 
lation he  could  not  see  for  the  life  of  him.  He  had 
half  promised  when  Arthur's  mother  came  in,  and 
the  subject  was  dropped.  But  he  gazed  at  the  new- 
comer with  his  heart  in  his  eyes;  he  thought  he  had 
never  seen  any  one  who  was  so  sweet  and  lovely. 

"Mother,  here's  my  dear  friend,  Tom  Brown; 
you  know  him?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  I  feel  as  though  I  had  known  him 
for  years,"  was  her  reply,  as  she  held  out  her  hand 
to  him.  And  when  the  time  came  for  him  to  go 
she  rose  and  walked  with  him  to  the  door,  and  there 
gave  him  her  hand  again,  and  that  deep,  loving  look 
that  was  like  such  a  spell  upon  him.  And  as  she 
thanked  him  so  warmly  for  his  kindness  to  her  boy, 
Tom  felt  repaid  for  all  that  he  had  done.  He  was 
quite  upset,  murmured  something  about  owing 
everything  that  was  good  in  him  to  Arthur,  looked 
in  her  face  again,  kissed  her  hand,  and  was  gone. 

But  he  had  a  time  of  it  with  the  boys —  East  and 
another  fellow — who  with  him  learned  their  lessons 
in  Greek  together.  Tom  talked  straight  on  and 
said  some  pretty  plain  things  about  the  dishonest 
way  they  had  gotten  out  their  translations  hitherto. 
After  chaffing  awhile.  East  delivered  himself  of  the 


94         FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

opinion  that  it  was  all  straight  and  fair  because 
they  were  expected  to  use  cribs  more  or  less. 

"Well,  old  fellow,"  said  Tom,  "you  are  a  good 
old  brick  to  be  serious  and  not  put  out  with  me. 
I  said  more  than  I  meant,  I  dare  say,  only  you  see 
I  know  I'm  right.  Whatever  you  fellows  do,  I 
shall  hold  on — I  must.  And  as  it's  all  new  and 
an  uphill  game,  you  see,  one  must  hit  hard  and  hold 
on  tight  at  first." 

"All  right,"  said  East,  "hold  on  and  hit  away, 
only  don't  hit  under  the  line." 

"But,  East,  I  must  bring  you  over,  or  I  shan't 
be  comfortable,"  said  Tom.  And  win  him  he  did, 
after  a  good  deal  of  discussion.  As  he  said  to  Arthur 
afterwards,  "Oh,  East  is  all  right.  He  always  comes 
through  the  mud  after  us,  grumbling  and  sputtering." 

The  time  came — it  was  just  before  Tom  bade  a 
final  good-by  to  Rugby — when  he  learned  of  what 
the  Doctor  had  done  for  him  which  had  served  to 
turn  the  current  of  his  life. 

He  was  talking  with  one  of  the  masters,  one  who 
had  been  his  teacher  in  the  scapegrace  days.  They 
were  speaking  of  Arthur.  "Nothing  has  given  me 
greater  pleasure,"  said  the  master,  "than  your  friend- 
ship for  him;  it  has  been  the  making  of  you  both." 

' '  Of  me,  at  any  rate, ' '  said  Tom.  * '  It  was  a  lucky 
chance  that  gave  me  him  for  a  chum." 

"Why  do  you  talk  of  lucky  chances,  Tom?  I 
don't  know  that  there  are  any  such  things  in  the 
world;  at  any  rate,  there  was  neither  luck  nor  chance 
about  that  matter." 


TOM   BROWN  95 

Tom  looked  at  him  inquiringly,  and  he  went  on. 

"Do  you  remember  when  the  Doctor  lectured 
you  and  East  at  the  close  of  the  term  when  you  had 
been  getting  into  all  sorts  of  scrapes?  Well,  I  was 
with  him  a  few  minutes  afterwards,  and  he  was  in 
great  perplexity  about  you  two.  And  after  talking 
it  over  he  determined  to  give  you  something  to  do 
that  would  correct  the  trouble.  And  so  he  gave 
you  Arthur  in  the  hope  that,  having  him  to  care 
for,  you  would  stand  a  little  steadier  yourself.  And 
I  can  assure  you  he  has  watched  the  experiment 
ever  since  with  great  satisfaction." 

It  was  a  revelation  to  Tom  Brown.  He  had, 
indeed,  grown  to  respect  the  Doctor,  but  was  in- 
clined to  think  him  a  little  fanatical  in  his  school 
reforms.  As  for  his  own  progress,  while  he  acknowl- 
edged his  indebtedness  to  Arthur,  still  he  took  a  fair 
share  of  credit  to  himself.  But  now  the  fact  stood 
revealed  to  him,  clear  as  the  light  of  day,  that  it 
was  the  Doctor's  foresight  and  wisdom  that  had 
been  the  making  of  him.  From  that  moment  the 
Doctor's  victory  over  him  was  complete.  He  gave 
way  at  all  points,  and  the  enemy  marched  right  over 
him,  infantry,  cavalry,  and  artillery,  the  land  trans- 
port corps,  and  the  camp  followers.  There  was  n't 
a  corner  of  him  now  that  did  n't  believe  in  the  Doc- 
tor. And  he  began  not  only  to  believe  in  Divine 
Providence  as  he  had  not  done  hitherto,  but  he  left 
Rugby  a  veritable  hero-worshiper,  one  who  would 
have  abundantly  satisfied  even  the  soul  of  Thomas 
Carlyle. 


96         FIGURES  FAMED   IN   FICTION 

And  this  his  great  ideal,  toward  which  his  boy's 
soul  went  out  with  the  abandon  of  devotion,  repre- 
sented not  merely  a  wise  and  strong  manliness  but 
also  faith  in  God.  And  so  the  youth,  like  so  many 
in  all  the  years,  won  his  way  through  hero-worship 
such  as  this  to  the  worship  of  Him  who  is  the  King 
and  Lord  of  heroes. 


DONOVAN 

A  T  the  age  of  nineteen  he  was  handsome  and 
-^^  intellectual  and  cynical — these  three  things 
in  one.  His  features  almost  classical  in  their  severe 
beauty,  clustering  black  curls  about  his  pale,  square 
forehead,  his  piercing  eye  and  determined,  grave, 
haughty  expression — his  cousin  Adela,  meeting 
him  for  the  first  time,  declared  he  was  Augustus 
Caesar  come  to  life  again!  His  mental  powers  were 
such  that  at  school  he  took  whatever  prizes  he 
chose,  and  he  became  such  an  expert  at  whist  that 
few  cared  to  play  against  him.  But  the  interest  in 
his  history  centers  in  his  cynical  attitude  of  mind, 
which  took  the  form  of  religious  skepticism.  How 
this  wrought  in  him  and  how  his  deliverance  came 
is  the  story  we  have  to  tell. 

His  father  was  dead  and  his  mother  was  good  for 
nothing;  a  woman  of  society,  absorbed  in  herself 
and  languidly  indifferent  to  domestic  duties — again 
we  say,  good  for  nothing.  When,  at  the  age  of 
nineteen,  Donovan  was  expelled  from  school,  his 
sense  of  honor,  forbidding  an  appeal  from  the  partial 
injustice  of  it,  covered  it  all  with  a  hard,  haughty 
reserve. 

He  came  home  under  a  cloud;  people  were  ready 
to  distrust  one  who  was  in  disgrace.  There  were 
stories,  too,  of  his  opinions,  that  he  had  been  seen 
at  an  infidel  lecture,  and  was  said  to  express  himself 

7  97 


98         FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

now  and  then  in  a  sweeping  way.  As  people  avoided 
him  from  time  to  time,  he  grew  cold  and  even  bitter 
in  his  thought  of  the  world.  His  early  religious 
training  had  been  worse  than  none  at  all. 

Even  in  childhood  his  active  mind  suggested 
questions  about  God  and  heaven  which  received  no 
answer  worth  the  name.  Some  people  were  happy 
and  others  were  miserable.  Why  was  it,  if  God  were 
good?  and  he  got  no  satisfaction.  He  was  taught 
that  the  principal  occupation  of  Almighty  God  was 
to  detect  and  punish  sin;  a  Judge,  watchful,  hard, 
and  stem,  who  admitted  fortunate  people  to  heaven 
and  dismissed  unfortunate  people  to  hell  with  strict 
impartiality  and  entire  absence  of  feeling.  And, 
worst  of  all,  he  had  never  met  with  genuine  Christi- 
anity. His  mother's  religion  was  conventional;  she 
went  to  church  because  it  was  proper  so  to  do,  and 
he  attended  her  at  her  wish  to  carry  her  prayerbook. 

But  now,  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  that  was  all  over. 
Possessed  of  a  disgust  with  anything  that  savored 
of  hypocrisy,  he  declared  the  whole  thing  to  be  a 
mockery  and  took  some  pride  in  that  skepticism 
which,  as  his  private  tutor  assured  him,  was  "not 
bad  form  nowadays." 

There  was,  however,  one  bright  spot  in  his  life; 
and  it  showed  the  real  Donovan  more  clearly  than 
this  temper  and  these  opinions  into  which  he  had 
grown.  It  was  his  tender  love  for  his  invalid  sister, 
now  at  the  age  of  twelve.  Her  face  was  pale  and 
beautiful ;  her  hair,  pushed  back  from  her  forehead, 
just  fell  to  her  shoulders  in  soft,  brown  masses;  her 


DONOVAN  99 

eyes  were  almost  exactly  like  Donovan's,  and  her 
love  for  him  amounted  almost  to  worship. 

"Darling  Dono,"  she  wrote  when  he  was  in  dis- 
grace at  school,  "I'm  so  sorry.  It  is  too  bad  they 
say  such  horrid  things  of  you.  I  don't  believe  them, 
and  I  never,  never  will!" 

It  brought  the  tears  to  his  eyes  to  see  her  implicit 
faith  in  him. 

"Dear  little  Dot,"  he  said  in  his  heart,  "you  and 
I  understand  each  other,  don't  we?" 

Poor,  dear,  bright  little  thing.  All  day  long,  day 
after  day,  she  lay  unmurmuringly  upon  her  couch 
of  pain. 

"Oh,  Dono!  I'm  so  glad  you've  come;  the 
hours  do  seem  so  long!"  This  was  her  greeting 
one  day  when  he  had  just  accepted  an  invitation 
from  an  old  friend  to  make  a  tour  of  Switzerland. 

"And  so  you  miss  me  when  I  am  away?  I  hope 
you  don't  cry,  little  one." 

"Oh,  no,  only  when  you  go  to  stay  a  long  time, 
like  when  you  went  away  to  school." 

"Why,  how  foolish,  darling.  What  makes  you 
cry?" 

"Because  I  love  you  so,"  she  answered,  looking 
wistfully  up  at  him  with  her  wonderful  eyes.  And 
then  and  there,  after  a  struggle  with  himself — for 
he  had  set  his  heart  on  the  journby — he  registered 
a  silent  vow  that  he  would  never  leave  her. 

One  beautiful  thing  about  the  child  was  a  certain 
kind  of  spiritual  life.  Notwithstanding  the  influ- 
ences about  her,  she  had  felt  her  way  to  love  and 

7 


loo       FIGURES  FAMED   IN   FICTION 

trust.  Donovan  said  little  to  her  about  his  skepti- 
cism, yet  the  fact  of  it  perplexed  her  now  and  then. 

"Dono,  dear,  when  it  is  all  over  and  we  die,  shall 
I  have  to  stop  loving  you?"  A  shadow  passed  over 
his  face,  and  he  did  not  answer.  "Oh,  Dono,  I 
could  n't  bear  to  stop  loving  you.  Perhaps  I  shall 
love  you  always.     How  do  you  know?" 

One  evening  they  were  together  in  the  dusk  as 
the  stars  were  coming  out. 

* '  How  good  you  are,  Dono !  How  you  have  given 
up  all  your  life  for  me!" 

' '  But  do  you  think  I  could  be  happy  to  go  away 
and  enjoy  myself,  leaving  you  alone?" 

"No,  Dono,"  she  replied,  nestling  closer  to  him, 
"I  am  quite  sure  you  never  could;  and  when  I 
think  of  you,"  she  added,  looking  up  among  the 
stars,  "then  I  grow  sure  as  can  be  that  the  greatest 
love  of  all  will  never  leave  us." 

For  two  years  he  ministered  in  the  most  beautiful, 
tender  way  to  her  who  thus  became  a  part  of  his 
very  life.  But  the  time  came  —  the  sad,  terrible 
time  —  when  she  was  taken  from  him. 

"Put  your  arms  about  me,  Dono,"  she  said,  "it 
is  so  cold.  Now  say  me  the  hymn  about  the  light." 
And  he  with  breaking  heart  and  trembling  voice 
repeated  the  immortal  hymn  which  she  had  come 
to  love: 

*'  Lead,  kindly  Light,  amid  the  encircling  gloom, 
Lead  thou  me  on" — 

And  through  the  gloom,  with  the  Kindly  Light  to  lead 
her,  she  went  beyond  the  power  of  his  love  to  follow. 


DONOVAN  loi 

And  it  was  dark  for  him,  and  desolate  and  despair- 
ing. And  the  funeral  —  he  went  to  the  church,  of 
course,  but  while  the  mourners  knelt,  he  could  not. 
He  could  not  weep.  And  as  the  procession  left 
the  church  he  heard  some  one  whisper,  "Of  course; 
atheists  are  always  hard  and  imfeeling."  With 
set  face  and  hardening,  bitter  soul  he  turned  toward 
the  uninviting,  empty  life  that  opened  before  him. 

Meanwhile  his  cousin  Ellis  —  an  older  man  and  a 
frequent  visitor  at  the  manor — had  succeeded  in 
winning  his  mother's  hand  and  establishing  himself 
as  the  head  of  the  household.  Donovan  had 
regarded  him  from  the  first  as  a  scheming,  treacher- 
ous man,  and  the  time  came  when  his  suspicions  were 
justified.  Donovan's  father  had  left  his  handsome 
property  to  his  only  son ;  the  supplanter  secured  and 
destroyed  the  will.  And  when,  some  months  after 
Dot's  death,  Donovan  attained  his  majority,  the 
rupture  came.  He  found  himself  actually  cast 
adrift,  turned  out  of  his  father's  house,  and  with  no 
allowance  for  his  maintenance;  and  this  by  a  man 
who  was  a  patron  of  charities  and  who  was  con- 
sidered a  very  good  churchman!  Appeal  to  his 
mother  was  in  vain.  She  wept,  and  was  helpless. 
And  so,  with  set,  white  face  and  mingled  hatred, 
rage,  and  contempt  of  life,  he  took  the  first  train  for 
London,  and  a  bitterer  spirit  never  went  into  exile. 

Alone  in  London!  The  seething  life  of  the  great 
city  almost  tossed  him,  like  a  feather,  on  its  current. 
His  pride  forbade  application  to  his  father's  friends, 
and  all  efforts  to  secure  a  situation  were  doomed  to 


I02       FIGURES  FAMED   IN   FICTION 

failure.  As  ill  fortune  would  have  it,  he  fell  in 
with  a  man,  a  kindred  spirit,  one  whom  the  worid 
had  used  in  the  same  way  as  himself  and  who  had 
been  led  by  the  contempt  and  misanthropy  thus 
born  within  his  soul  to  take  from  men  what  men 
had  so  unjustly  taken  from  him, — a  professional 
gambler.  And  when  this  man,  in  his  hard,  cynical 
way,  had  told  his  story  and  made  his  proposition 
to  Donovan,  the  latter  in  sheer  desperation  accepted 
a  partnership  in  the  nefarious  business — the  work 
of  fleecing  those  whom  they  could  decoy  into  playing. 
He  well  knew  the  step  was  a  wrong  one;  he  would 
never  excuse  it  in  after  years.  And  indeed  it  was 
strange  that  his  usually  high  sense  of  honor  did 
not  make  it  impossible.  But  he  acted  on  the  impulse 
of  the  time,  and  entered  on  the  lowest  and  most 
painful  phase  of  his  life. 

Let  no  one  think  it  was  a  congenial  life.  While 
there  were  times  when  his  masterly  knowledge  of 
gaming  proved  a  source  of  excitement  and  pleasure, 
yet  the  reaction  of  disgust  would  come,  and  for  days 
he  would  not  play.  One  evening  on  a  late  train 
from  Manchester  which  they  had  taken  in  order 
to  ply  their  trade,  he  saw  a  placard  bearing  words 
which  burned  themselves  into  his  brain :  ' '  Caution ! 
Passengers  are  warned  to  beware  of  card  sharpers 
dressed  as  gentlemen."  He,  his  father's  only  son, 
had  fallen  so  low  that  this  description  would  apply 
to  him!  Why,  these  hands  of  his — the  hands  that 
had  waited  on  Dot,  his  pure,  bright  little  angel, 
now   gone   forever — these   hands   had   stooped   to 


DONOVAN  103 

the  work  of  taking  money  won  by  cheating  at  play. 
He  cursed  himself,  and  longed  to  be  free. 

The  time  came  when,  with  a  supreme  effort  of  his 
iron  will,  he  cut  loose  from  his  life  of  dishonor.  He 
found  himself  again  in  the  streets  of  London  on  the 
same  quest  as  that  of  a  year  before,  and  with  the 
same  barren  results.  A  certain  charitable  institute 
found  him  to  be  admirably  qualified  for  the  position 
of  secretary.  "And  your  religious  views,  sir?" 
asked  the  president.  "Do  you  belong  to  the  High 
or  Low  Church  party?" 

"To  neither,"  said  Donovan;  "I  am  an  atheist." 
And  in  those  four  words  lay  his  doom.  And  so  it 
was  from  day  to  day.  Hungry,  penniless,  wet,  and 
cold,  he  still  set  his  face  like  a  flint  toward  an  honor- 
able life.  Worn  with  labor,  exposure,  hunger,  and 
soul-anguish,  how  it  happened  that  he  reached 
the  little  town  of  Porthkerran  and  was  befriended 
by  Dr.  Tremain  we  may  not  pause  to  tell.  Suffice 
it  to  say  that  it  was  none  too  soon !  When  the  fever 
had  left  him  he  protested  most  earnestly. 

"But  I'm  not  fit  to  stay  here.  I  must  be  moved 
somehow.  No,  no !  Listen ;  then  I  think  you  will  turn 
me  out.  Do  you  know  what  I  am  ?  I  was  once  what 
men  call  a  card  sharper;  I  have  n't  a  penny  in  the 
world;  and,  more  than  all,  I  am  an  atheist!   There!" 

"Never  mind,"  said  Dr.  Tremain  in  an  odd, 
quiet  voice.     "Do  not  think  you  are  not  welcome." 

"What?  It  seems  to  me  you  are  different  from 
other  people.  I  cannot  imagine  a  Christian  taking 
me  in." 


104       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

"That's  the  very  reason  why  we  do,  my  dear 
fellow." 

As  Donovan  listened  and  lay,  silently  watching 
the  doctor,  a  great  love  for  the  man  sprang  up  in 
his  heart.  The  reason — he  did  not  know  it  then, 
but  it  was  true — the  deep  reason  was  this:  he  had 
met  with  Christianity  for  the  first  time. 

The  doctor  induced  him  to  tell  his  story.  He 
gave  the  outline  with  no  attempt  whatever  at  con- 
cealment or  excuse. 

"Ah!  my  boy,  you've  taken  no  care  of  yourself!" 

"Well,  life  is  n't  worth  much  extra  fuss,  anyway." 

"There's  another  side  to  that  question.  We'll 
help  you  to  look  at  it  differently,"  was  the  reply. 

Strange!  But  the  touch  of  Mrs.  Tremain's  soft 
hand  smoothing  his  hair,  doing  it  simply  because 
he  w^as  in  trouble  and  she  was  a  Christian,  did  more 
for  him  than  all  the  argument  in  the  world  could 
have  done.  How  like  a  mother  she  seemed!  And 
when  she  got  him  to  tell  her  of  Dot  one  day,  how  good 
it  was  to  weep  without  restraint  as  he  echoed  again 
her  unforgetable  words:  "I  know  you  love  me, 
Dono,  and  when  I  think  of  that  I  grow  sure  that  the 
greatest  love  of  all  will  never  leave  us." 

"I  have  brought  you  some  flowers  again.  You 
must  not  be  cheated  out  of  them  just  because  you 
are  getting  better."  The  speaker  was  the  doctor's 
daughter,  a  girl  of  eighteen  summers.  Donovan, 
from  the  very  first,  had  been  impressed  with  her 
clear  mind  and  the  spiritual  quality  that  clung  to 


DONOVAN  105 

her.  And  as  the  days  went  by  he  grew  sure  that 
she  must  be  a  genuine  Christian  like  the  rest  of  them. 

They  were  talking  one  day  of  little  children. 
"Tell  me  about  little  Dot,"  said  Gladys.  "How  I 
wish  I  could  have  known  her." 

For  answer  he  placed  in  her  hand  a  little  miniature 
of  Dot  which  he  always  carried  with  him.  She 
looked  at  it  in  silence,  fascinated  most  of  all  by  the 
glorious  hazel  eyes. 

"Thank  you  so  much  for  letting  me  see  it,"  she 
said. 

"It  was  taken  only  a  few  months  before  she  died," 
he  said  quietly. 

"And  she  left  you  believing  she  would  meet  you 
again?"  said  Gladys,  the  tears  welling  up  in  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  yes.  Isn't  it  strange  how  easily  belief  in 
God  and  heaven  comes  to  some  souls?  I  wish  it 
might  come  to  me,  but  that  is  impossible." 

"Oh,  don't  say  that!"  said  she  quickly.  "Leave 
yourself  at  least  a  hope.  It  may  not  always  seem 
impossible." 

Her  sweet,  eager  face,  with  its  entire  absence  of 
self -consciousness,  took  Donovan's  heart  by  storm. 
So  concerned,  so  innocently  anxious  that  he  should 
not  fail  in  the  search  for  spiritual  truth  and  life! 
She  had  found  it,  he  was  sure. 

Meanwhile  the  treacherous  supplanter,  his  cousin 
Ellis,  lived  in  Donovan's  mansion  and  was  distin- 
guished for  his  charities  with  Donovan's  money. 
Dr.  Tremain  made  every  effort  to  have  justice 
done,  but  in  vain.    The  most  he  could  secure  for 


io6       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

Donovan  was  an  allowance  of  one  hundred  pounds 
a  year;  a  pitiful  sum,  but  better  than  nothing. 
Recovering  his  health  and  strength,  the  latter  began 
to  plan  for  the  future;  and  it  was  with  the  doctor's 
hearty  approval  that  he  entered  the  medical  school 
in  London. 

"I  came  to  scold  you!"  said  Gladys  one  evening. 
"Why  are  you  here  alone  in  the  froggiest  part  of 
the  garden?  This  is  n't  the  way  to  spend  vacation. 
It  was  so  stupid  of  me  to  forget  that  you  would  be 
sure  to  leave  the  house  just  because  my  long-lost 
brother  has  come!" 

"Well,  don't  be  too  hard  on  me  for  it,  will  you? 
I  thought  I  might  be  out  of  place,  you  know,  in  a 
family  reunion.  And  then  you  must  remember 
how  I've  been  shut  out  of  things  all  my  life.  No 
one  has  ever  loved  me  but  a  few  children  and  a  dog 
or  two." 

"Oh,  you  must  not  say  that!"  she  exclaimed  in  a 
voice  so  full  of  pain  and  sympathy  that  it  startled 
even  herself.  "You  know — you  know  that  it  is 
not  true!" 

As  the  words  passed  her  lips  her  own  heart  stood 
suddenly  revealed  to  her.  She  could  hardly  under- 
stand the  strange,  tumultuous  feehng  that  the  mere 
uttering  of  the  words  had  seemed  to  bring.  How 
glad  she  was  that  he  could  not  see  her  clearly  in  the 
dusk. 

Donovan  was  the  first  to  speak.  She  knew  by 
his  manner  that  she  had  not  betrayed  herself. 


DONOVAN  107 

"I  was  wrong  to  speak  bitterly,  for  I  can  never, 
never  forget  the  love  I  have  found  here.  I  can 
never  forget  your  father." 

And — it  is  not  cant,  it  is  not  sentiment,  it  is 
not  anything  other  than  a  fact  of  the  very  finest 
and  deepest — Gladys  that  night  pra3^ed  for  Dono- 
van. 

It  is  evident  enough  that  Donovan,  with  his  clear, 
active  mind,  could  not  live  as  he  did  for  a  few  months 
in  this  home  without  perceiving  that  the  Christian 
faith  of  these  souls  had  something  to  do  with  their 
lives — so  different  from  any  others  he  had  seen. 
And  by  and  by  it  came  to  this :  he  longed,  earnestly 
longed,  to  possess  that  which  meant  so  much  to  them. 

"But  religious  people  are  so  dogmatic,"  he  com- 
plained in  one  of  his  conversations  with  the  doctor. 
"They  assert  that  this  is  so,  or  that  is  so,  believe 
it  or  perish!" 

"I  confess  that  what  you  say  is  true  but,  believe 
me,  there  is  a  better  way.  My  dear  fellow,  /  have 
known  something  of  this  darkness  which  is  about 
you,  /  have  felt  what  you  are  now  feeling;  and  I 
want  to  say  to  you.  Do  not  grudge  the  suffering  or 
the  waiting,  but  go  on  patiently." 

"Go  on  doubting?"  questioned  Donovan. 

"Go  on  living;  by  which  I  mean,  doing  your 
duty.  Depend  upon  it,  Donovan,  that  is  the  only 
thing  to  cling  to  in  perplexity  like  yours." 

"Well,  the  true  life;  in  that  I  certainly  believe. 
But  tell  me  honestly,  doctor,  do  you  think  the  per- 
plexity will  ever  end?" 


io8       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

The  noble  face  of  his  friend  seemed  to  shine  as 
he  replied:  "I  am  certain  that  it  will  end;  soon 
or  late  all  will  grow  plain.  Only  be  patient,  be 
patient,  Donovan,  and  in  the  right  time  the  truth 
will  make  you  free.  Meanwhile  you  have  one  unfail- 
ing comfort.  You  can  live  at  your  best,  you  can 
act  up  to  your  conscience,  and  to  any  man  who 
desires  to  do  His  will,  a  knowledge  of  the  truth  is 
promised." 

When  Donovan  returned  on  his  first  vacation 
from  London  it  was  with  the  great  questions  still 
unanswered  and  his  heart  unsatisfied.  He  had 
found — what  the  doctor  had  intimated  to  him — 
that  opinions  are  not  to  be  changed  at  will.  But 
with  severe,  almost  haughty  determination  he  had 
tried  to  live  an  honorable,  studious  life,  faithful  to  the 
duties  that  came  before  him.  On  this  his  return 
to  the  friends  who  had  grown  so  dear  to  him  he 
found  Gladys  more  reserved.  Something  of  the 
old,  delightful  frankness  had  disappeared  from  her 
manner.  She  seemed  to  him  more  womanly  and — • 
if  that  were  possible — more  Christian.  Small  won- 
der that  he  idealized  her,  for  she  was,  in  truth,  the 
noblest  woman  he  had  ever  known. 

He  was  the  soul  of  honor,  and  his  treatment  of  her 
was  so  courteous  and  brotherly  that  the  days  passed 
smoothly,  even  for  her  who  lived  with  tumult  in 
her  heart.  One  day,  however,  a  chance  word 
betrayed  her,  and  Donovan  guessed  her  heart  for 
the  first  time.  And  then — for  was  he  not  the  soul 
of  honor? — came  the  bitterest  struggle  of  his  hfe. 


DONOVAN  109 

This  was  the  issue  before  him.  Was  it  right  for 
him  to  go  on  with  this  attachment  and  to  make  her 
wretched  all  her  life  by  his  cynical,  skeptical  views 
of  all  she  held  dear  and  sacred?  Was  it  possible 
for  her  to  be  happy  in  such  a  union?  He  felt  con- 
vinced that  it  could  not  be.  Then  came  the  duty — 
was  any  duty  ever  harder? — to  climb  the  steep  of 
honor,  to  set  his  face  toward  the  wilderness,  to  cut 
short  his  stay  in  their  home.  Might  not  this  be  a 
part  of  the  duty  in  doing  which  he  should  come  to 
know  the  truth?  It  might  be — he  was  not  sure — 
but  in  his  heart  he  believed  it  to  be  duty,  and, 
fighting  down  his  natural  being,  with  set  face  and 
aching  heart  he  bade  them  all  good-by.  How  hard 
it  was  to  leave  them ! 

She  stood  leaning  against  the  doorway,  sick  at 
heart.  A  few  commonplace  words  were  spoken, 
and  he  was  gone.  Gone!  But  utterly  faithful  to 
duty  as  it  seemed  to  him,  and  with  his  heart  almost 
breaking.     If  she  only  could  have  known! 

Among  his  acquaintances  in  London  was  a  young 
man — a  neighbor  and  friend  of  the  Tremains — 
who  was  known  as  Stephen.  Although  reared  in 
the  straitest  way  of  the  Evangelicals,  he  was 
morally  weak  and  inclined  to  be  vicious.  Donovan, 
for  the  sake  of  his  friends  in  Porthkerran,  did  what 
he  could  in  dissuading  the  fellow  from  evil  courses; 
but  in  vain. 

"Good  evening.  I've  brought  you  a  lot  of  news 
from  Porthkerran,"  said  Stephen  one  day.  "All 
well  and  send  love,  and  so  on.     What  a  fine  girl 


no       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

that  Gladys  has  grown  to  be!  Awfully  jolly,  and 
uncomfortably  pretty,  too!  By  the  way,  I'm  all 
right  on  the  doctor's  books,  and  my  mother  wants 
Gladys  for  a  daiighter-in-law;  so  you  see  I'm  right 
all  round.     What  do  you  think?     Hey  ? " 

Donovan  longed  to  kick  him. 

"Discuss  your  love  affairs  with  whom  you  please, 
but  not  with  me,"  he  said,  reining  in  his  voice  with 
difficulty.  "You  ought  to  have  found  out  before 
now  that  I  'm  made  of  cast  iron,  and  have  chosen 
your  confidant  better." 

Nevertheless  Donovan  did  not  remit  his  watch- 
fulness, occasionally  warning  the  graceless  youth 
against  the  set  who  some  day  would  be  sure  to 
ruin  him. 

There  was  still  another  whom  he  sought  to 
befriend. 

"My  son  Jack  has  gone  wild  in  London,  Mr. 
Donovan,"  said  Trevethan,  the  Porthkerran  black- 
smith. ' '  Could  ye  ever  find  'im,  it  would  be  servin' 
the  Lord  an'  me  too."  And  Donovan  promised  to 
do  whatever  he  could. 

One  evening  as  the  Westminster  chimes  rang  out 
on  the  night.  Big  Ben  booming  the  hour  of  nine, 
Donovan  stepped  into  the  street  resolved  to  follow 
Stephen,  aware  that  he  was  at  play  in  a  certain 
billiard  saloon.  As  he  entered  he  was  attracted  by 
the  face  of  the  billiard  marker,  a  rough,  dark-haired 
young  man.  Surely  that  must  be  the  prodigal  son  of 
the  honest  blacksmith !  He  leaned  forward,  and  said 
in  a  low  voice,  "Is  your  name  Jack  Trevethan?" 


DONOVAN  III 

The  man  started  violently. 

"No!  My  name's  Smith.  What  do  you  want 
o'me?" 

"Nothing.  But  I  have  a  message  for  a  man 
named  Jack  Trevethan  from  his  father.  If  you 
happen  to  know  him,  here  is  my  card." 

Passing  on  into  the  room,  he  found  Stephen 
losing  heavily  at  the  game.  By  skillful,  off-hand 
persuasion  he  finally  induced  him  to  attend  a  con- 
cert with  him  which,  as  he  said,  he  could  not  afford 
to  miss. 

This  was  only  one  incident  of  the  year — a  year 
of  constant  care  on  Donovan's  part  for  this  fellow 
simply  because  he  was  her  friend.  And  there,  too, 
came  another  struggle.  He  was  orthodox  and 
presumably  acceptable;  there  were  doubtless  no 
matrimonial  objections.  Why  not  let  him  go  his 
own  way,  and  ruin  himself  as  he  was  sure  to 
do?  Then  again  there  came  before  him  the  idea  of 
duty;  and  Dr.  Tremain's  words  lingered  in  his 
mind,  "Depend  upon  it,  Donovan,  it  is  the  only 
thing  to  cling  to." 

Stephen,  meanwhile,  had  succeeded  in  main- 
taining his  good  name  at  home.  His  mother  con- 
sidered him  an  exemplary  youth,  but  in  great  danger 
from  his  friend  Donovan.  She  did  not  forget  that 
he  had  once  been  a  gambler  and  then,  what  could 
one  expect  from  an  atheist,  anyway?  And  when 
Stephen  was  seriously  injured  by  an  accident  at  the 
races,  the  question  occurred,  Why  was  her  son  in 
such   disreputable   company?      She   came   to   the 


112       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

conclusion  that  Donovan  had  led  him  astray,  and 
Stephen  found  it  convenient  not  to  undeceive  her. 
She  induced  Gladys  to  come  to  London  with  her  to 
assist  in  caring  for  her  son.  And  so  they  met  again, 
Gladys  and  Donovan. 

"I  did  hope  that  Stephen  would  have  a  good 
influence  over  you,"  said  his  mother  to  Donovan, 
"but  now  I  see  it  is  you  who  have  led  him  astray. 
You  have  cruelly  abused  my  trust.  No;  I  think 
there  is  nothing  you  can  do  for  us." 

"I  should  be  very  sorry  to  annoy  you  by  staying," 
said  Donovan,  with  compressed  lips  and  pale  face, 
"and  I  bid  you  good  day." 

For  one  moment  Gladys  sat  still.  But  she  could 
not  let  him  go  like  this;  there  was  surely  some  mis- 
take. She  called  to  him  as  he  was  going  down  the 
stairs,  "Donovan!" 

He  paused.  He  knew  not  what  to  do.  The 
very  sound  of  his  name  on  her  lips  had  reawakened 
the  wildest  longing  for  what  he  knew  must  never  be. 

"Do  not  go  like  this,"  she  said  pleadingly.  "I 
know  you  can  explain  it  all.  Please  wait  till  papa 
comes." 

The  bitterness  of  the  struggle  in  that  moment 
God  only  might  know.  Why  not  explain,  indeed? 
But  in  that  case  Stephen  would  stand  exposed  and 
condemned.  Perhaps  the  present  experience  would 
itself  save  him;  who  could  tell?  No!  The  dis- 
closure must  come  from  him  if  it  came  at  all.  And 
so  he  merely  said  to  her,  controlling  his  voice  as  best 
he  could,  "BeHeve  me,  it  is  better  that  I  should  go." 


DONOVAN  113 

She  looked  steadily  up  at  him,  and  wondered  as 
she  gazed.  For  there  was  that  about  him  that  went 
to  her  very  heart  and  raised  her  out  of  herself.  He 
looked  utterly  noble.  The  very  light  of  Christ 
shone  in  his  face.  She  could  never  describe  it  in 
after  years,  but  it  not  only  confirmed  her  implicit 
faith  in  him;  it  revealed  also  the  beginnings  of  a 
new  life.  She  was  sure  he  was  not  far  from  the 
kingdom  of  heaven,  and  her  heart  sang  for  joy. 

"Good -by!"  she  said  softly;  that  was  all. 

"You  will  believe  in  him  when  you  see  him, 
papa,"  said  she.  But  the  doctor  in  an  interview 
failed  to  gain  any  light  or  satisfaction.  Donovan 
believed  it  to  be  his  duty  to  maintain  silence,  and 
his  face  was  hard  and  dark  and  very  cold.  The 
doctor  was  completely  misled,  and  of  course  was 
deeply  grieved. 

"God  forgive  me,  Donovan,  if  I  am  harsh  with 
you,  but  I  confess  I  am  disappointed  in  you." 

"Just  forget  me;  that  is  best,  and  that  is  all  I 
ask,"  was  the  reply. 

"Just  one  more  question.  Why  would  you  not 
come  to  us  last  summer  ?     Do  you  mind  telling  me  ? " 

"I  regret  to  say  I  must  decline  to  do  so." 

The  doctor  wrote  him  a  letter — and  such  a 
letter — upon  his  return  home.  Mrs.  Tremain  wrote 
him  also,  as  only  a  mother  can  write  to  a  son,  urging 
him  to  tell  her  all.  But  he  had  settled  the  question 
of  duty,  whether  wisely  or  unwisely  it  matters  not, 
and  the  letters  were  unanswered. 

"Stephen,"  said  Gladys — for  the  time  came  when 

8 


114       FIGURES  FAMED  IN   FICTION 

he  urged  his  suit — "I  would  Hke  to  be  your  friend, 
but  I  cannot  say  that  I  even  respect  you.  After 
your  course  last  summer  —  " 

"You  are  very  hard  on  me,  Gladys.  You  forget 
what  excuse  I  had;  you  forget  that  I  was  left  alone 
with  Donovan,  and  that  he  led  me  into  temptation." 

Her  eyes  searched  him  like  those  of  an  accusing 
angel.  There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Then  with 
a  thrill  of  indignation  in  her  low  voice  she  said, 
"Stephen,  you  are  lying  to  me,  and  you  know  it!" 

When  he  recovered  from  his  confusion  he  found 
that  she  had  left  the  room. 

About  this  time  Donovan  chanced  to  form  an 
acquaintance  with  a  clergyman  who,  strange  to 
say,  cared  little  for  creeds,  doctrines,  scripture 
texts,  and  the  like,  but  who  loved  God  and  loved 
men,  and  his  love  of  men  was  pervaded  by  a  sym- 
pathy with  such  as  Donovan  that  was  almost  per- 
fect. He  did  something  for  him  by  showing  him  the 
unscientific  basis  of  atheism;  but  his  chief  service 
was  in  showing  him  that  the  idea  of  duty — which 
had  become  almost  a  goddess  to  Donovan — included 
the  grace  of  forgiveness. 

Donovan  grew  so  deeply  interested  that  he  told 
the  story  of  his  wrongs  and  asked,  "Now,  tell  me, 
what  does  the  law  of  duty  require  a  man  like  me 
to  do?" 

"The  law  of  duty,  as  Christ  reveals  it,  makes  it 
your  privilege  to  cherish  a  forgiving  spirit  in  your 
heart,  so  that  whenever  the  fitting  time  may  come 
it  will  become  instantly  manifest." 


DONOVAN  115 

"Impossible!  Impossible!  The  man  is  a  hypo- 
crite, a  liar,  a  schemer,  a  perfect  scoundrel!" 

"I  will  acknowledge  it  is  hard.  But,  my  dear 
fellow,  the  ideal  is  high.  It  must  be  high,  you  see, 
if  Christ  came  to  reveal  God  to  you  and  me.  Did 
you  ever  climb  a  mountain?  It  was,  indeed,  a 
great  labor,  but  when  you  reached  the  summit 
and  saw  the  vision  — ' ' 

' '  If  there  be  a  summit  and  a  vision,"  said  Donovan, 
in  a  low  voice. 

"Though  it  tarry,  wait  for  it,"  was  the  answer. 

The  time  came  at  last;  opportunity  for  the 
supreme  duty  of  all.  News  reached  Donovan  that, 
by  some  strange  fatality,  his  cousin  Ellis,  the 
defrauder,  had  become  infected  with  the  smallpox 
and  was  ill  in  a  distant  quarter  of  London. 

Here  it  was,  thrust  upon  him,  the  crucial  test 
according  to  his  friend.  Hitherto  he  had  shrunk 
from  nothing;  he  had  been  utterly  loyal  to  the  best 
he  knew.  What  about  this  now  before  him  ?  What 
should  he  do?  What  would  He  do  who  had  said, 
"Love  your  enemies"?  He  thought  it  over  and 
over.  He  fought  it  over  and  over!  There  was  his 
enemy  dying;  he  richly  deserved  to  die.  Suppose 
he  should  be  able  to  save  his  life?  What  then? 
Practical  obstacles  reared  themselves.  And  yet 
all  the  while  the  majestic  figure  of  Christ  would 
stand  out  before  him,  expressing  the  ideal  of  duty 
which  included  all  others.  Thank  God,  the  great 
Christ  did  not  live  for  nothing! 

And  so  in  utter  sincerity  of  heart  Donovan  made 

8 


ii6       FIGURES  FAMED   IN   FICTION 

his  decision.  He  found  his  enemy  in  delirium.  In 
his  lucid  moments  the  wretch  refused  to  believe  him 
to  be  sincere.  "Why  did  you  come?  Why  do  you 
stay?  You  know  you  hate  me ! "  But  by  days  and 
nights  of  persistent  care  and  kindness  Donovan 
partially  overcame  his  prejudice. 

"Surely  you  can  believe  in  me  now,"  he  said 
one  night,  after  days  and  nights  of  watching.  And 
then  there  came  to  his  own  soul  that  which  he  had 
never  thought  to  know.  The  words  he  had  just 
used  seemed  to  echo  in  his  own  heart  as  if  God  were 
repeating  them — "Surely  you  can  believe  in  me 
now!" 

He  began  to  see  that  his  pain  in  trying  to  deal 
with  this  his  enemy  was  but  the  shadow  of  the 
pain  which  he  himself  had  given  to  One  who  was 
higher  and  nobler  than  any  earthly  soul.  His 
thought  enlarged;  there  were  more  things  in 
heaven  and  earth  than  he  in  his  philosophy  had 
dreamed.  The  veil  was  lifted,  and  in  the  place  of 
the  dim  unknown  stood  One  who  had  always  loved 
him  with  an  everlasting  love.  And  he  seemed  to 
hear  over  again  the  words  of  little  Dot :  "  It  is  all 
true,  Dono.  The  greatest  love  of  all  will  never 
leave  us." 

The  poor,  sick  man  drew  near  his  end.  His 
remorse  was  fearful,  his  fears  were  real,  and,  strange 
thing,  Donovan  became  his  spiritual  counselor. 

He  must  say  something.  What  was  he  to  say? 
He  caught  in  his  own  mind  at  the  truth  which  had 
just  come  to  him,  namely,  that  the  human  love  is 


DONOVAN  117 

a  faint  image  of  the  divine.  And  he  found  himself 
telling  the  dying  man  of  the  Great  Father  whose 
love  would  never,  never  leave  us. 

The  minutes  passed;  the  clock  struck  three.  "I 
should  like  you  to  say  the  Lord's  Prayer,"  said  the 
dying  man;  and  the  two  men  repeated  the  "Our 
Father,"  and  sealed  their  reconciliation.  In  the 
morning  he  was  gone. 

When  all  was  over,  Donovan  felt  a  craving  for 
the  frosty  air  of  the  early  morning. 

The  dawn  was  just  breaking.  As  he  walked  on 
alone  he  thought  of  what  had  come  to  him.  The 
dawning  of  the  Light  Eternal  upon  his  soul — nothing 
less  than  that  it  was  and,  with  a  kind  of  strange 
exultation,  he  felt  himself  living  a  larger  life.  Ah! 
there  are  more  resurrection  days  than  the  world 
dreams  of — Easters  which  are  none  the  less  real 
though  church  bells  do  not  ring ! 

Before  Donovan  was  called  to  this  ordeal  he  had 
the  opportunity  to  befriend  Jack  Trevethan.  He 
was  ill,  and  owed  his  life  to  Donovan's  care.  He 
had  now  returned  to  his  father.  A  shrewd  fellow, 
he  had  begun  to  guess  a  good  deal  that  you  and  I 
are  supposed  to  know.  He  was  devoted  to  Donovan, 
and  eager  to  serve  him. 

"Dr.  Tremain,"  said  Jack,  "I  have  a  notion — well, 
how  shall  I  tell  it?  Doctor,  you  used  to  know 
young  Mr.  Donovan? 

The  doctor  bowed  gravely. 

"Have  ye  heard  from  him  lately  at  all?" 

The  doctor  shook  his  head. 


ii8       FIGURES  FAMED   IN  FICTION 

"He  and  Mr.  Stephen  used  to  be  chums  till  Mr. 
Stephen  got  into  trouble." 

"Yes,"  said  the  doctor;  "and  I  confess  I  am  very 
sorry." 

"Sorry  that  they  were  chums?  And  may  I  ask, 
sir,  why  you  should  be  sorry?" 

"Oh,  never  mind.  Jack.  It's  a  long,  sad  story. 
I  had  hopes  of  Donovan  once,  but  I  confess  I  have 
been  disappointed." 

"Now,  look  here,  doctor.  I've  seen  some  things, 
and  I've  guessed  some  things,  and  would  ye  mind 
if  I  tell  ye  one  or  two  things  I  know?  Ye  would  n't 
mind?  Well,  one  thing  is  this,  that  I  was  going 
to  the  devil  in  London,  and  he  found  me  out,  just 
because  he  promised  my  old  father  he  would.  And 
when  I  was  down  on  my  luck  and  sick  and  most 
a-dyin',  he  was  God's  own  angel  to  me,  and  brought 
me  through.  And  another  thing.  One  night  long 
afore  that,  he  came  into  the  billiard  room  where 
Mr.  Stephen  was  playin'.  I  was  there  markin' 
for  the  game.  There  was  a  gang  had  got  hold  of 
Mr.  Stephen — I  knew  'em  all — and  I  said  to  myself 
it  was  all  day  with  him.  But  Mr.  Donovan  came 
in  and  talked  with  him,  and  after  quite  a  spell  he 
got  him  away  from  'em." 

"Wait  a  minute,  Jack.  Did  Mr.  Donovan  play 
with  any  of  them?" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  Play!  Why,  all  he  seemed  to 
want  was  to  get  Mr.  Stephen  away  from  'em." 

The  doctor  could  hardly  believe  he  heard  aright. 


DONOVAN  119 

"But  did  not  Mr.  Donovan  come  there  many 
times  to  play  with  him?" 

"No,  sir!  That's  what  I'm  a-comin'  to.  He 
only  came  that  one  night,  and  then  he  got  him  away." 

It  chanced  that  Stephen  that  very  evening  was 
paying  one  of  his  visits  to  the  doctor's  house  — 
visits  that  Gladys  so  dreaded. 

"Stephen,"  said  the  doctor,  "I  should  like  to  see 
you  in  my  study,  if  you  please," 

Stephen  had  a  vague  presentiment  that  his  time 
had  come. 

"I  have  nothing  very  pleasant  to  say  to  you.  I 
have  just  had  a  talk  with  a  man  who  was  employed 
in  a  billiard  room  where  you  used  to  play,  and  he 
has  told  me  of  the  one  evening  when  Donovan  came 
there  and  induced  you  to  leave.  Is  that  what  you 
call  being  led  into  temptation?" 

Stephen  turned  pale.  He  tried  to  outface  the 
story.     He  tried  to  throw  discredit  upon  the  witness. 

"Anyhow,"  said  he  at  last,  "Donovan  had  no 
business  to  spy  on  me." 

'  *  Take  care ! ' '  said  the  doctor.  ' '  Your  own  words 
are  condemning  you!" 

After  a  long  and  sullen  altercation  the  fellow  broke 
down  in  a  humiliating  confession.  The  truth  was 
out  at  last,  and  the  dawn  of  a  brighter  day  was  at 
hand.  Gladys  trembled  for  joy  when  her  father 
told  her.  He  prepared  to  go  up  to  London  at  once. 
He  longed  to  see  Donovan. 

"Donovan,  my  dear  boy,  I  have  come  to  ask  your 


120       FIGURES  FAMED   IN   FICTION 

forgiveness.  I  want  to  tell  you  that  we  know  the 
whole  truth  now.  I  could  not  wait,  but  started 
immediately  to  hunt  you  out.  My  dear  fellow%  can 
you  ever  forgive  us  for  misjudging  you  so  cruelly?" 

"Well,  it  was  my  own  doing,"  said  Donovan, 
while  a  new  light  shone  in  his  eyes.  ' '  You  were  very 
slow  to  condemn  me,  but  it  seemed  best  that  you 
should  forget  me,  both  on  Stephen's  account  and 
in  every  way." 

"But  w^hy  'in  every  way'?  I  can't  understand. 
Why  did  you  refuse  to  come  to  us  last  summer? 
Can  you  not  tell  me  now?" 

"Yes,  now  I  think  I  can  tell  you.  I  could  not 
come  because  I  loved  your  daughter.  I  was  not 
sure  I  could  help  showing  it.  I  thought — it  may 
have  been  presumption — that  she  might  possibly 
care  for  me.  I  felt  sure  that  a  life  with  a  cynic 
and  skeptic  such  as  I  would  make  her  miserable; 
and  so  I  hoped  that  she — that  you  all — would 
forget  me." 

' '  And  little  Gladys  is  the  very  one  who  has  insisted 
from  the  first  that  we  were  mistaken.  But  we  could 
not  forget  you.     Will  you  not  come  back  to  us  now  ? ' ' 

"I  can  only  say,  doctor,  that  the  reason  for  not 
coming  does  not  trouble  me  as  once  it  did.  I  say 
it  in  all  humility.  I  do  see  a  little  light.  I  am 
trying  to  believe  in  God;  and  if  you  could  trust 
Gladys  to  one  like  me — " 

"She  must  speak  for  herself;  for  my  part,  I  would 
gladly  trust  her  to  you  unreservedly.  I  will  not 
thank  you  for  the  course  you  have  taken  but — " 


DONOVAN  121 

and  he  struggled  with  his  emotion — "it  has  made 
you  very  dear  to  me,  Donovan."  And  the  two 
men  wrung  each  other's  hands. 

It  was  dark  when  they  reached  Porthkerran. 
"Gladys,"  said  Donovan,  "I  want  to  ask  you,  if  I 
may,  for  something  more  than  friendship.  Tell  me 
if  I  may  speak."  Her  heart  was  dancing  with 
happiness!    She  could  not  answer. 

"I  fled  from  you  once  because  I  would  not  offer 
myself,  a  cynical  unbeliever,  knowing  that  I  should 
make  you  miserable.  I  loved  you  too  well  to  do 
that.  But,  Gladys,  I  can  now  say,  with  all  humility 
and  sincerity,  I  do  begin  to  believe  in  God;  I  am 
learning  something  of  the  Everlasting  Love,  and  I 
do  want  you  to  help  me." 

"I  think  I  have  always  loved  you,"  she  answered 
simply,  in  her  rich,  low  voice,  "and  I  was  always  sure 
the  light  would  come  to  you." 

"But,  dear,  can  you  put  up  with  my  incomplete- 
ness? Can  you  trust  one  who  is  at  the  beginning 
of  everything?" 

"After  trusting  in  the  darkness,  it  is  easy  to  trust 
in  the  light,"  said  Gladys  softly. 

As  he  stood  with  her  under  the  stars  he  thought 
of  the  possibilities  of  life,  with  God  in  his  heaven 
and  her  to  walk  with  him  here. 

"How  glorious  life  is!"  he  exclaimed.  "And 
what  a  grand  old  working  place  the  world  is!  Oh, 
if  we  can  only  do  the  half  we  long  to  do!  And, 
best  of  all,  the  greatest  love  of  all  will  never  leave 
us!" 


122       FIGURES  FAMED   IN   FICTION 

She  looked  up  at  him,  her  bright  eyes  shining 
like  stars  through  a  mist. 

"Oh,  Donovan,  how  glad  little  Dot  will  be!" 


MARCUS  VINICIUS 

T  TE  was  a  young  Roman  of  the  time  of  Nero,  the 
-*•  -^  type  of  Roman  soldier  of  the  better  class. 
Although  still  in  his  youth,  he  was  a  military  tri- 
bune—  a  position  which  was  easily  commanded  by 
his  vast  wealth  as  a  patrician — and  he  had  also 
covered  himself  with  glory  in  a  campaign  against 
the  Parthians.  A  young  Roman  of  the  better  class, 
we  say.  The  moral  corruption  then  almost  univer- 
sal had  hardly  reached  him,  for  his  life  had  been 
one  of  strenuous  exertion  in  camp  and  field;  per- 
sonally he  had  known  little  of  the  debauchery 
and  sensualism  of  the  court  of  the  Caesars.  Never- 
theless he  was  a  pagan,  with  pagan  ideals.  A  Roman 
soldier,  he  knew  no  such  thing  as  forgiveness  of  an 
enemy,  no  such  thing  as  pity  for  the  captive,  nothing 
other  than  arbitrary  control  of  his  hundred  slaves. 

He  was  an  Apollo  for  manly  grace  and  strength, 
and  was  everywhere  admired.  Returned  from  the 
wars  in  the  East,  he  was  in  favor  at  the  imperial 
court,  flattered  and  tempted  on  every  hand.  A 
strong,  gracious,  manly  soul  he  was, —  among 
Romans,  according  to  Roman  standards, —  with  his 
life  opening  before  him. 

"Welcome  to  Rome,  and  sweet  peace  to  thee  after 
war!"  said  his  uncle  Petronius  as  Vinicius  called 
upon  him.  He  had  been  pro-consul  in  Bithynia, 
but  had  retired  with  his  great  wealth  to  live  in  the 

123 


124       FIGURES  FAMED  IN  FICTION 

luxury  of  the  sensual  court.  "How  is  my  health?" 
he  continued,  as  the  young  man  made  his  inquiries, 
"Not  very  good.  Dost  commend  me  to  the  god 
Asklepios?  But  I  do  not  believe  in  him.  Oh,  yes, 
I  sent  gifts  once  —  three  dozens  of  well-fed  chickens 
and  a  golden  gimlet.  I  said  to  myself,  it  will  do  no 
harm.  I  tell  thee,  they  are  tricksters,  all  of  them, 
gods  and  priests;  but  it  did  no  harm.  Life  is  a 
deceit,  and  the  soul  itself  is  a  fancy.  By  the  dead 
gods,  I  am  weary  of  life — sometimes." 

They  went  to  the  bath  together.  "By  the  beard 
of  Caesar!  What  a  body  thou  hast!"  said  the  elder 
man.  "  It  is  as  if  cut  out  of  marble.  Had  Lysippos 
seen  thee  he  would  employ  thee  as  a  model  for  a 
statue  of  Hercules  to  adorn  the  gate  leading  to  the 
Palatine."  And  he  looked  at  the  youth  with  the 
pleased  eye  of  an  artist. 

"Tell  me,"  he  added,  "hath  the  goddess  of  love 
never  marked  thee  ? ' ' 

"In  truth,  Petronius,  I  came  to  tell  thee;  to  make 
confession  and  to  ask  thy  counsel.  I  have  been 
shot  at  unharmed  by  the  arrows  of  the  Parthians, 
but  those  of  Amor  struck  me  but  a  few  stadia  from 
the  city  gate." 

"Well,  then,  and  who  is  she?" 

Vinicius  composed  himself  to  tell  his  story. 
"Thou  knowest  the  matron  Pomponia,  the  wife  of 
Aulus?  Well,  she  is  good  as  she  is  wise,  and  thou 
knowest  there  are  not  forty  in  Rome  of  whom  thou 
canst  say  as  much.  Her  brother  the  consul  brought 
home  from  the  wars  on  the  Danube  a  hostage  from 


MARCUS  VINICIUS  125 

the  Lygians.  She  is  a  king's  daughter,  and  beautiful 
as  the  day.  I  swear  to  thee  by  the  graces  that  since 
I  have  seen  her  I  cannot  rest.  I  have  no  wish  to 
know  what  Rome  can  give  me,  neither  wine,  nor  gold, 
nor  Corinthian  bronze,  nor  amber,  nor  pearls,  nor 
Grecian  maidens — I  want  only  Lygia.  And  how 
to  possess  her,  verily  I  know  not." 

"What?  And  thou  a  Roman  soldier!  Take  her, 
thou  foolish  boy,  and  transfer  her  to  thy  palace." 

"That  cannot  be;  Pomponia  loves  her,  and  is 
the  guardian  of  her  soul.  More  than  that,  I  cannot 
take  her  as  my  mistress;  she  must  be  my  wife  or 
nothing.     Thou  seest  my  dream  of  virtue." 

"Oh,  boy,  learn  wisdom,  and  forget  thy  dream. 
Let  me  tell  thee.  I  am  in  favor  with  Nero.  She 
shall  be  brought  to  the  palace  at  his  command — 
never  fear;  I  can  divert  his  mind — and  thence 
thou  shalt  take  her.  Only  be  patient.  I  will  do 
this  for  thee,  for  I  love  thee." 

It  was  done.  All  too  common  a  thing  was  it  in 
those  days  for  the  daughters  of  Rome  to  be  seized 
at  Nero's  command.  Her  friends  feared  the  worst, 
but  they  were  helpless.  We  will  not  describe  the 
feast  in  Nero's  palace  at  which  her  presence  was 
commanded.  It  was  a  magnificent  revel,  yet  one 
which  gave  loose  rein  to  the  passions,  and  which 
ended  in  a  wretched  debauch.  Vinicius  was  seated 
next  to  Lygia.  A  Roman  of  the  better  class,  he 
was  yet  a  pagan,  he  was  at  Cassar's  feast,  and  he 
was  full  of  wine  and  folly.  What  would  you  have? 
Were  not  follies  a  part  of  the  life  of  pagan  Rome? 


126       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

The  beautiful  girl  had  been  lovingly  cared  for  by 
Pomponia,  and  kept  from  evil.  When  she  had  first 
met  Vinicius,  although  shy  as  the  deer  upon  her 
native  mountains,  she  yet  had  been  charmed  with 
him,  as  who  would  not  have  been?  But  now  he  was 
not  himself.  He  was  no  longer  the  high-minded 
Roman  youth,  but  was  half-drunken,  impertinent, 
repulsive.  All  was  confusion  and  shameless  aban- 
don; and  Lygia  felt  as  if  the  judgment  of  heaven 
must  strike  as  a  thunderbolt  soon  or  late. 

But  her  good  angel  was  with  her,  and  was  watch- 
ing. A  great  Lygian  giant  was  her  attendant  and 
protector.  His  strength  was  immense,  and  he  was 
wholly  devoted  to  his  beautiful  queen.  Suddenly 
Vinicius  felt  himself  hurled  aside.  Glancing  up,  he 
saw  the  giant  Ursus  looking  at  him  in  such  a  way 
that  the  blood  chilled  in  his  veins.  Then  the  great 
Lygian  deliberately  took  his  queen  upon  his  arms 
and  with  even  stride  bore  her  from  the  bacchanalian 
revel,  and  she  imagined  she  had  been  snatched  from 
the  brink  of  perdition.  Her  rescuer  was  unmolested; 
every  one  supposed  him  to  be  a  slave  obeying  orders. 

The  next  day  she  received  a  message  from  Vinicius. 
He  would  entertain  her  at  his  house  and,  with  her 
permission,  would  send  for  her  in  the  evening.  The 
giant  Ursus  knew  of  his  queen's  despair.  And  when 
that  evening  the  slaves  that  flanked  the  curtained 
litter  in  which  she  was  borne  through  the  crowded 
streets  were  crying,  "Make  way  for  the  noble 
Marcus  Vinicius!"  clearing  the  way  for  his  well- 
known  palanquin,  suddenly  there  was  an  assault 


MARCUS  VINICIUS  127 

which  the  bodyguard  of  slaves  was  powerless  to 
repel.  There  was  great  confusion  in  the  darkness. 
One  and  another  of  the  slave  guard  were  struck 
blows  that  would  have  felled  an  ox,  and  Lygia  was 
borne  by  Ursus  out  of  the  fray. 

Vinicius  impatiently  awaited  them.  His  slaves 
were  stricken  with  fear  at  the  result  of  their  mission. 
"Let  Gulo  tell  him,"  they  said.  "He  is  the  old 
and  faithful  servant  of  the  house;  let  him  tell." 

"Where  is  Lygia?"  cried  Vinicius,  leaping  for- 
ward.    His  voice  was  strained  and  hoarse. 

Gulo  stepped  forward,  showing  the  blood  on  his 
face  and  arms.  "Behold  our  blood,  my  lord!  We 
have  fought.     Behold  our  blood." 

Before  he  had  the  time  to  finish,  Vinicius  had 
seized  a  lamp  of  bronze,  and  shattered  his  skull  at 
a  single  blow.  His  face  became  livid  and  distorted. 
"Bring  the  scourges!"  he  cried  in  a  terrible  voice. 

"Have  pity,  lord!  Have  pity!"  moaned  the 
slaves ;  but  they  moaned  in  vain. 

Have  we  said  he  was  a  Roman  of  the  better  class  ? 
Have  we  praised  him?  But  what  can  one  expect 
of  a  pagan  in  pagan  Rome  in  the  days  of  Nero? 

Now,  of  course,  he  lived  for  only  one  thing — to 
discover  Lygia's  retreat.  His  passion  for  her, 
although  it  amounted  to  infatuation,  was  the  purest, 
noblest  feeling  he  had  ever  known.  The  detective 
Chilo,  whom  he  employed,  at  length  informed  him 
to  his  great  astonishment  that  Lygia  was  a  Christian, 
and  that  her  giant  keeper  had  been  aided  by  Chris- 
tians in  her  rescue.    A  Christian,  a  member  of  that 


I2S       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

infamous  order  currently  reported  and  believed  to 
be  enemies  of  the  human  race,  worshipers  of  an  ass's 
head,  poisoners  of  wells  and  fountains,  and  mur- 
derers of  children!  He  said  it  was  impossible,  and 
yet  the  proof  was  laid  before  him. 

"What!"  said  Petronius.  "Pomponia  and  Lygia 
Christians,  therefore  they  are  vile  as  all  this?  I  say 
it  is  stupid  nonsense.  If  they  are  Christians  — 
which  it  seems  difficult  to  deny — then,  by  Proserpina, 
Christians  are  not  what  we  thought  them  to  be." 

Inasmuch  as  she  would  probably  be  defended  by 
Ursus,  it  was  needful  to  match  his  great  strength, 
and  Petronius  secured  the  giant  Croton  from  the 
pretorian  guards. 

"It  is  well,  lord,  that  thou  didst  send  for  me 
to-day,"  said  Croton,  "for  I  start  to-morrow  for 
Beneventum,  whither  Nero  hath  summoned  me  to 
wrestle  with  Syphax,  the  most  powerful  Moor  in 
all  Spain.  By  Hercules !  I  can  hear  his  bones  crack, 
what  time  I  shall  lay  hold  upon  him!"  And  the 
athlete  drew  himself  up,  and  stretched  out  his  arms. 

Lygia 's  retreat  was  discovered.  Arrived  at  the 
place,  "Croton,  hast  thou  the  courage  to  enter?" 
asked  Vinicius. 

"Yea,  verily,  my  lord.  And  if  I  do  not  succeed 
in  breaking  the  back  of  that  Lygian  bull  who  guards 
this  maiden,  thou  canst  have  me  for  thy  slave." 

Entering  into  an  inner  court,  in  the  dim  morning 
light,  Vinicius  perceived  Ursus  at  the  fountain. 
He  turned  as  he  saw  them,  quietly  asking,  "What 
want  ye  here?" 


MARCUS  VINICIUS  129 

Croton  rushed  on  him,  and  there  was  battle  royal. 
Vinicius  stayed  not,  but  sought  Lygia  and,  returning 
with  her,  a  strange  sight  met  his  eyes.  For  a  moment 
he  could  not  believe  what  he  saw.  There  in  the 
courtyard  was  Ursus,  with  the  body  of  Croton 
doubled  back  upon  itself  and  dead.  The  giant 
rushed  at  Vinicius  and  struck  a  blow  that  stunned 
him,  and  another  that  broke  his  arm.  One  more 
would  have  been  the  last,  had  not  Lygia  exclaimed, 
"Do  not  kill." 

When  he  awoke  from  his  swoon  he  could  hardly 
believe  his  eyes,  but  thought  he  saw  a  vision.  She 
was  standing  by  his  couch,  cooling  his  fevered  head, 
and  her  touch  was  like  life  or  heaven.  She  had 
never  seemed  to  him  one  half  so  beautiful;  her 
patrician  head,  her  noble  bearing,  and  an  indefinable 
loveliness  which  he  dimly  knew  must  be  the  beauty 
of  her  soul. 

"Lygia,"  he  whispered,  "thou  didst  not  permit 
him  to  kill  me." 

"Peace  be  with  thee!  May  Christ  restore  thee!" 
was  her  only  answer. 

And  now  for  a  time  she  became  his  nurse,  quiet, 
reserved,  concerned  only  that  he  should  recover. 
And  then,  if  by  God's  mercy  he  should  become  a 
Christian — but  for  this  she  hardly  dared  to  hope. 
But  it  was  here  he  was  to  learn  the  true  spirit  of 
Christianity;  its  message  for  the  pagan  world  was 
to  find  its  way  to  his  Roman  brain. 

Suddenly  there  was  an  exclamation  in  the  outer 
room,  "Dost  know  me,  Chilo?" — the  detective 
9 


I  >o 


FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 


whom  X'inicius  had  employed  had  failed  to  escape — 
"Dost  know  me?"  followed  by  protestation  from 
the  other,  "No!  No!  No!  I  am  not  he.  Nay, 
nay,  I  am  not!     Mercy!" 

"My  friends,"  said  the  other — Glaucus  was  his 
name  —  "my  friends,  this  man  betrayed  and  ruined 
me  and  my  whole  family." 

The  giant  Ursus  strode  up  at  the  moment,  exclaim- 
ing, ' '  Verily,  he  is  also  the  man  who  tried  to  persuade 
me  to  kill  thee,  Glaucus." 

"Oh,  mercy!  I  will  give  thee —  Oh,  save  me, 
lord!"  exclaimed  Chilo,  turning  to  Vinicius.  "I 
trusted  in  thee.  Take  my  part,  save  my  life,  I  pray 
thee." 

Vinicius  was  wholly  unconcerned,  for  his  heart 
knew  nothing  of  pity.  He  regarded  Chilo  as  fairly  in 
the  hands  of  his  enemy,  and  therefore  doomed.  And 
so  this  was  his  only  response  to  his  frantic  appeal: 
"Bury  him  in  the  garden;  I  have  no  need  of  him." 

Chilo,  trembling  in  the  iron  grasp  of  Ursus,  was 
still  piteously  begging  for  his  life  when  a  venerable 
man  whom  the  Christians  called  the  apostle — Vini- 
cius had  heard  his  name  and  knew  it  to  be  Peter — 
arose  and  said,  "Glaucus,  the  Redeemer  said  unto 
us,  'If  thy  brother  hath  sinned  against  thee  and 
repent,  forgive  him.'  " 

There  came  a  still,  great  silence  in  the  room. 
Glaucus  stood  for  a  moment,  with  his  hands  cov- 
ering his  face,  struggling  with  himself.  Then  he 
removed  them,  saying,  "Chilo,  may  God  forgive 
thee,  as  I  forgive  thee,  in  the  name  of  Christ." 


MARCUS   VINICIUS  131 

Chilo  could  not  believe  what  he  heard  and,  not 
yet  daring  to  hope  for  mercy,  seemed  unable  to  move. 
The  apostle  turned  to  him  with  the  words,  "Go  in 
peace!"  and  the  astonished  man  departed,  hardly 
knowing  what  had  happened  to  him. 

As  for  Vinicius,  he  could  not  account  to  himself 
for  what  had  occurred.  Why  did  not  the  Christians 
kill  the  man?  According  to  his  moral  code  they 
should  by  all  means  have  done  so.  Although  pity 
was  not  wholly  unknown  in -that  world  to  which 
Vinicius  belonged,  still  revenge  for  a  personal  wrong 
seemed  to  him  wholly  just,  and  a  matter  of  course. 
And  yet  this  strange  thing  had  happened  before  his 
very  eyes.  The  words  of  Glaucus  still  sounded  in 
his  ears,  "May  God  forgive  thee,  as  I  forgive  thee, 
in  the  name  of  Christ."  Why?  Why?  he  asked 
himself  again  and  again.  Then  he  recalled  the  words 
of  Peter,  that  it  was  Christ's  command.  And  even 
while  he  was  thinking,  the  apostle  placed  his  hands 
on  the  head  of  Glaucus,  saying,  "My  brother,  Christ 
hath  triumphed  in  thee!"  And  some  strange, 
dawning  conception  of  Christian  love  began  to  come 
over  the  mind  of  the  young  patrician. 

When  evening  came  again  a  company  of  Christians 
gathered  in  the  room,  and  Peter  exhorted  them  in 
the  name  of  Christ,  telling,  as  he  did  so,  the  story 
of  Him  who  came  to  love,  to  save,  and  to  forgive. 
"  'Love  your  enemies,'  said  the  Master,  'do  good  to 
them  that  hate  you,  and  pray  for  them  that  despite- 
fully  use  you.'  "  This  was  Christianity,  then!  And 
Lygia  was  a  Christian ;  she  had  laid  hold  upon  these 
9 


112 


FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 


new,  great  things;  she  was  living  the  strange,  exalted 
life.  To  his  thought  it  set  her  apart  from  him,  and 
far  above  him.  He  dreamed  that  night  that  he 
traversed  seas  and  deserts  in  the  dark,  and  that  she 
was  his  guide,  seeing  a  far-off  beacon  light  where 
he  could  see  none  at  all,  and  finally  leading  him  to 
the  day  and  to  safct}-. 

When  he  awoke  she  approached  him,  saying,  "I 
am  wdth  thee!" 

He  replied,  "Verily,  my  love,  thou  art  beautiful 
with  the  inner  beauty,  for  in  a  dream  I  have  seen 
thy  soul." 

These  changes,  then,  were  going  on  in  the  hearts 
of  both.  Vinicius  now  so  loved  her  that  to  effect 
her  capture  by  force  was  the  last  thing  he  would 
have  done.  She,  on  her  part,  began  to  know  that 
her  soul  was  held  in  love  of  him.  She  struggled  with 
herself,  she  spent  the  night  in  prayer,  for  was  it  not 
a  sin  for  a  Christian  to  be  mastered  by  a  w^orldly 
love?  She  resolved  to  seek  another  abode,  thus 
doing  her  best  to  overcome  her  love.  The  severe 
Crispus,  to  whom  she  went  for  counsel,  had  nothing 
but  w'ords  of  reproof  and  denunciation,  which  filled 
her  with  despair.  But  just  then  a  ray  of  hope 
seemed  to  come  to  her,  for  Peter  the  apostle  entered 
and,  falling  at  his  feet,  she  hid  her  tortured  face  in 
the  folds  of  his  mantle  while  Crispus  told  her  story. 
The  venerable  apostle  listened  to  the  end. 

"Crispus,"  said  he,  "knowest  thou  not  that  our 
beloved  Lord  blessed  love  between  man  and  woman  ? 
And    thinkest    thou   that    He  w^ho  allowed   Mary 


MARCUS  VINICIUS  133 

Magdalen  to  lie  at  his  feet,  would  turn  from  this 
child,  who  is  pure  as  a  field  lily?" 

And  turning  to  Lygia,  he  said,  "My  daughter, 
while  the  eyes  of  the  one  thou  lovest  are  closed  to 
the  truth,  avoid  him,  that  he  may  not  lead  thee  into 
unbelief.  But  pray  for  him,  knowing  that  there 
is  no  sin  in  thy  love.  And  do  not  weep,  for  I  tell 
thee  the  grace  of  the  Redeemer  is  with  thee,  and 
thy  prayers  will  be  heard,  and  though  sorrow  abide 
for  a  night,  joy  cometh  in  the  morning." 

"Thou  dost  ask  me  to  write  minutely  of  myself, 
carrissime,"  wrote  Vinicius  to  Petronius  at  Bene- 
ventum,  "but  it  is  not  easy,  since  there  are  many 
knots  which  I  know  not  myself  how  to  loosen. 
Here  I  am,  recovered  and  returned  to  my  house 
from  the  Christians.  I  say  to  thee,  my  friend,  the 
world  has  never  seen  people  like  them,  and  he  who 
measures  them  with  our  yardstick  will  surely  err. 
Where  their  teachings  begin,  there  our  dominion 
ends.  In  the  place  of  power  and  the  sword  and 
revenge  and  Caesar's  decrees,  there  appears  Christ, 
and  a  kind  of  mercy  which  hath  not  hitherto  been 
seen;  a  kindness  contrary  to  our  Roman  instincts. 
I  am  not  a  philosopher,  but  neither  am  I  a  fool ;  and 
I  swear  to  thee  that  this  of  which  I  write  is  a  fact 
which  I  have  seen.  Know  thou  also  that  Lygia,  too, 
is  filled  with  this  spirit,  and  I  think  therein  lieth  the 
reason  why  she  seemeth  unto  me  an  angel  of  light. 
She  loves  me — that  I  know — and  yet  she  fled  from 
me.     I  cannot  understand  that.     I  would  not  have 


134       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

interfered  wnth  her  belief;  one  new  god  would  not 
be  in  my  way,  since  I  am  not  a  strong  believer  in 
the  old  ones.  I  suspect  that  nothing  will  do,  for 
her,  except  that  I  become  a  Christian  and  feel  this 
new  love  and  pity  in  my  soul.  But,  I  take  the  gods 
to  witness,  it  seemeth  unto  me  impossible. 

"And  yet  I  see  a  little  light.  Let  me  tell  thee. 
When  I  returned  home  I  found  my  slaves  drunk  in 
the  halls  of  my  palace,  thinking  I  was  in  Beneventum. 
They  were  stricken  with  fear,  and  implored  forgive- 
ness. At  first  I  was  about  to  have  them  flogged 
and  branded  with  hot  irons.  But — wilt  thou  be- 
lieve it?  —  I  felt  ashamed,  and  was  filled  with  a 
sort  of  pity  for  them.  The  next  day  I  told  them  I 
forgave  them,  if  so  be  they  would  be  more  faith- 
ful. And  they  fell  on  their  knees,  calling  me  their 
father,  and  now  serve  me  better  than  ever  before. 
Then,  too,  my  vassals  who  depend  upon  my  bounty; 
but  yesterday  it  was — their  poverty  seemed  hard 
to  me,  and  I  felt  compassion.  I  inquired  about  their 
wives  and  children,  and,  I  swear  to  thee,  the  tears 
came  into  my  eyes.  I  cannot  think  of  Gulo,  whom 
I  slew,  without  reproach  and  sorrow.  I  have  ordered 
a  tombstone  for  him.  From  all  this  thou  canst 
judge  that  something  is  gnawing  at  my  vitals.  And 
if  what  I  write  astonish  thee,  I  reply  it  astonishes 
me  no  less,  but  I  write  pure  truth.     Farewell." 

To  see  this  young,  stalwart  Roman,  this  honest, 
pagan  soul,  seeking  to  understand  and  to  feel  what 
seemed  so  dense  and  beyond  feeling — albeit  he  was 
moved  thereto  by  a  human  love — was  both  pitiful 


MARCUS  VINICIUS  135 

and  beautiful.  He  would  not  embrace  Christianity 
in  name  and  receive  baptism  merely  to  win  his 
Lygian  queen.  It  was  not  honorable,  and  something 
in  even  his  code  of  honor  forbade  it.  It  was  a  matter 
between  her  soul  and  his  own,  and  there  could  be 
no  lie  nor  shadow  of  a  lie.  No !  He  must  set  him- 
self to  understand  this  new,  strange  life  of  virtue 
and  love  of  enemies  and  worship  of  one  God. 

"My  son,"  Peter  had  said  to  him,  "do  the  truth 
which  thou  knowest  so  far  as  thou  canst;  thus  shalt 
thou  learn  the  way." 

What  could  he  do?  One  day  he  summoned  his 
hundred  slaves,  and  unto  those  who  had  served  him 
twenty  years  he  gave  their  freedom.  Unto  the 
others,  each  three  pieces  of  gold  and  double  rations. 
And  while  the  portico  rang  with  rejoicing,  the  tears 
came  into  his  eyes  again. 

"Verily,"  said  he,  "this  way  leadeth  toward 
happiness." 

But  as  the  days  went  by  he  was  distracted.  Lygia 
could  not  return  to  the  house  of  Pomponia,  for 
Ccesar  would  learn  of  it  and  at  the  least  would  take 
her  again.  At  length  he  sought  the  company  of 
Christians  at  the  house  where  he  had  lain  wounded 
and,  finding  Peter  with  them,  laid  his  case  before 
him. 

"Once,"  said  he,  "I  would  have  taken  her  by 
force;  now  I  will  not  think  of  it.  I  might  confess 
Christ,  receive  baptism,  and  so  secure  her  with  your 
approval;  but  that  would  be  a  lie.  O  my  father, 
I  come  to  thee  in  my  darkness,  saying.  Enlighten 


I ^^6       FIGURES   FAMED   TN   FICTION 

mc.  I  see  that  ye  believe  in  mercy  and  love  and 
virtue.  I  cannot  understand  it,  still  I  am  begin- 
ning to  learn  that  way.  I  forgave  my  slaves  when 
I  hey  angered  me;  I  am  disgusted  with  the  feasts 
and  the  revels;  I  believe  in  violence  no  longer.  And 
now  I  ask  thee — for  I  am  much  perplexed  —  is  it 
sinful  to  love?  Is  it  sinful  to  be  happy?  Are  ye,  as 
men  say,  enemies  of  life?  Must  I  renounce  this 
maiden  who  is  to  me  like  the  snow  upon  the  moun- 
tains? I  come  to  you  in  my  darkness,  and  I  swear 
I  am  sincere.  And  I  say  not  unto  you,  Baptize  me, 
but  rather,  Enlighten  me." 

The  heart  of  the  great  apostle  was  moved  as  he 
looked  upon  the  young  man  in  his  suffering.  He 
held  out  his  hand  to  him. 

"My  son,  I  love  thee.  Verily,  thou  art  not  far 
from  the  kingdom  of  God.  The  grace  of  God  is  upon 
thee;  and  I  bless  thee,  thy  soul,  and  thy  love  in  the 
name  of  the  Redeemer  of  the  World." 

Sending  for  Lygia,  he  gave  her  to  him,  saying,  as 
he  placed  his  hands  upon  their  heads,  "My  children, 
love  each  other  in  the  Lord,  and  to  His  glory,  for 
therein  is  no  sin." 

One  need  not  recount  the  happiness  of  the  days 
that  followed;  the  mutual  explanations,  the  love 
and  peace  unspeakable.  The  two  were  standing 
like  two  white  statues  among  the  cypresses  in  the 
garden,  and  Lygia's  eyes  in  the  moonlight  seemed 
like  azure  flowers  glittering  with  dew.  The  voice 
of  Vinicius  was  broken  with  emotion. 

"Thou  wilt  be  to  me  the  very  soul  of  my  soul, 


MARCUS  VINICIUS  •      137 

and  the  dearest  thing  in  God's  creation.  We  shall 
worship  the  same  God,  breathing  the  same  prayers. 
O  my  love,  could  fancy  picture  anything  sweeter 
than  this — to  live  together  in  the  love  of  God,  and 
to  know  that  after  death  we  shall  awake,  as  from 
a  pleasant  sleep,  to  a  new  life?  What  is  there  can 
stand  against  this  new  religion,  with  its  one  God, 
its  life  of  virtue,  and  its  heaven  eternal!  Surely 
Jupiter  will  one  day  be  forgotten,  and  all  his  temples 
will  belong  to  Christ.  I  confess  to  thee  I  cannot 
yet  understand  it  all — this  love  and  pity  and  virtue, 
and  this  one  God,  and  this  Christ  his  son  who  rose 
from  the  dead;  but  with  thee  for  my  teacher,  I  shall 
learn." 

To  hear  him  speak  like  this,  to  know  his  entire 
sincerity,  assured  he  would  one  day  be  wholly  a 
Christian,  filled  her  soul  with  a  love  that  was  more 
than  love,  even  that  which  is  heaven-born. 

"Thank  God!  Thank  God!"  she  whispered. 
"Believe  me,  Marcus,  Christ  hath  led  thee  hitherto, 
and  will  lead  thee  to  Himself." 

"What  hath  come  over  thee,  Vinicius?"  said 
Petronius  at  their  next  meeting.  "Tell  me,  art  thou 
a  Christian  ? ' ' 

"Not  yet.  But,  before  the  gods,  I  would  I  were 
one.  It  is  a  strange  faith,  and  my  Roman  brain  is 
dense.     It  may  be  that  I  shall  learn." 

"It  is  a  marvel,"  said  the  other  musingly,  "how 
fast  the  sect  is  growing." 

"Verily  it  is  a  marvel,"   said  the  young  man, 


I3S       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

"and  there  are  many  converts,  I  find,  among  the 
patricians.  Shrug  not  thy  shoulders,  for  presently, 
mayhap,  thou  wilt  embrace  it  thyself." 

"I?  By  Minerva,  I  decline.  Did  it  include  all 
truth  and  all  wisdom,  human  and  divine,  I  would 
not  accept  it.  It  would  be  necessary  that  I  work, 
and  also  practice  self-denial,  and  that  I  do  not  love. 
Embrace  it  myself!  Venus!  I  love  my  jewels,  my 
bronzes,  my  perfumes,  and  my  beautiful  Greek  slave 
too  well.  The  poetry  of  the  gods  also,  and  music 
and  sleep  and  wine —  Oh,  by  the  graces,  Marcus, 
I  am  not  yet  a  fool." 

But  dark  days  were  coming,  days  of  trouble  that 
were  to  try  the  souls  of  men.  The  great  tragedy 
of  the  first  century  was  waiting,  and  the  Christians 
were  to  fall  its  innocent  victims.  The  beginning 
of  it  was  that  red  night  in  the  history  of  the  world 
when  the  great  city  of  Rome  was  discovered  to  be 
on  fire.  The  six  days  that  followed  sufficed  to  create 
desolation  wide  and  terrible.  Nero  with  his  court 
was  at  Antium  at  the  time,  and  Vinicius  was  attend- 
ing at  Caesar's  command. 

When  the  news  came  by  courier  that  the  city  was 
burning,  the  young  soldier  rushed  from  the  palace 
and,  commanding  a  few  slaves  to  follow,  he  took 
horse  and  set  out  for  Rome.  He  had  but  one  thought, 
that  of  her  possible  danger.  He  plunged  into  the 
burning  city.  The  perils  that  he  faced  were  a^^ful; 
his  exertions  almost  superhuman,  until,  by  a  good 
providence,  he  found  the  company  of  Christians, 
led  by  Peter,  in  the  quarries  of  Janiculum,  outside 


MARCUS  VINICIUS  139 

the  city  gates.  And  Lygia  was  with  them,  safe  from 
harm. 

"My  father,"  said  Vinicius,  turning  to  Peter, 
"Rome  is  burning  at  the  command  of  Caesar.  The 
end  is  not  yet.  What  it  will  be,  I  know  not ;  but  it 
will  be  blood  as  well  as  fire.  Listen  to  me.  Come 
with  me  and  Lygia,  and  await  in  Sicily  the  passing 
of  the  storm." 

"Go  thou  and  Lygia,"  said  the  apostle,  "and  let 
the  sick  Linus  here  also  go  with  you.  As  for  me, 
I  must  not  desert  those  of  our  brethren  who  are  in 
peril." 

"But  I  swear  to  thee,  my  teacher,  thou  wilt  stay 
here  to  thy  destruction." 

"Be  it  so,  my  son.  But  Christ,  who  said  unto 
me,  'Feed  my  lambs,'  would  look  upon  me  again  in 
sorrow  did  I  abandon  them  to  their  fate." 

Vinicius  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead  as  if 
in  mental  struggle,  and  then  spoke  in  a  voice  ringing 
with  the  energy  of  a  Roman  soldier:  "O  father  of 
my  soul,  and  thou,  Lygia,  life  of  my  life,  and  the 
rest,  my  brethren,  listen.  I  spoke  as  my  human 
reason  dictated,  but  your  reason  is  different.  It 
does  not  think  of  personal  safety  but  of  the  com- 
mands of  the  Redeemer.  I  did  not  understand 
that,  because  my  eyes  were  not  opened  and  the 
former  man  is  still  in  me.  But  I  love  Christ  and 
wish  to  be  His  servant;  and  here,  in  the  face  of  life 
and  death,  I  kneel  before  ye  and  swear  that  I  will 
carry  out  the  commands  of  love,  and  will  not  forsake 
my  brethren  in  the  day  of  trouble." 


MO       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

As  he  kneeled  before  them  he  seemed  possessed  of 
an  inspiration.  His  hands  and  his  eyes  were  raised, 
and  he  cried,  "Is  it  possible  that  I  understand  thee, 
O   Christ?     Am  I  worthy  of  thee?" 

His  hands  trembled.  Tears  were  running  down 
his  checks.  Peter  took  an  earthen  vessel  of  water, 
approached  him,  and  said  triumphantly,  "I  baptize 
thee  in  the  name  of  the  Father,  the  Son,  and  the 
Holy  Ghost!    Amen." 

The  terrible  issues  of  the  great  conflagration  which 
Vinicius  foresaw,  shaped  themselves  ere  long.  The 
Emperor  Nero,  with  his  insufferable  egotism  laying 
claim  to  the  genius  of  poet,  tragedian,  and  singer, 
was  at  work  upon  his  Troy  ad,  and  hailed  the 
conflagration  with  joy  as  an  aid  to  his  marvelous 
powers!  For,  in  full  view  of  the  holocaust,  at  the 
darkest  hour  of  the  night,  he  would  sing  of  burn- 
ing Troy. 

On  that  night,  assembled  with  his  court,  the  spec- 
tacle was,  indeed,  awful  and  inspiring;  but  there 
was  another  side  to  the  picture.  It  was  the  people, 
the  homeless,  starving  people,  clamoring  for  bread. 
For  a  time,  indeed,  they  were  pacified.  But  the 
smouldering  rage  against  the  emperor  was  contin- 
ually breaking  forth,  for,  whether  with  reason  or 
not,  it  was  generally  believed  that  the  imperial 
tragedian  had  fired  the  city  in  order  to  secure  dra- 
matic inspiration  of  the  realistic  order.  To  divert 
their  wrath  from  himself — anything  to  accomplish 
this  end  was  eagerly  welcomed. 

"Listen    to    me,   O  Caesar,"    said    his    courtier 


MARCUS  VINICIUS  141 

Tigellinus.  "Thou  hast  heard  of  that  accursed  sect, 
the  Christians.  Have  I  not  told  thee  of  their  crimes 
and  dissolute  ceremonies;  of  their  predictions  that 
fire  would  cause  the  end  of  the  world?  The  people 
hate  and  suspect  them,  for  they  never  go  to  our 
temples;  they  consider  our  gods  evil  spirits;  they 
despise  the  races  in  the  stadium,  and  they  honor 
not.  thee,  the  emperor.  Who  burned  the  imperial 
city  but  they?  The  people  demand  vengeance; 
let  them  be  gratified." 

And  so,  at  the  imperial  order,  the  Christians 
were  arrested  and  imprisoned  by  the  hundreds. 
Vinicius,  still  in  attendance  at  the  court  of  Caesar, 
escaped  arrest,  but  Lygia,  having  by  her  beauty 
become  an  object  of  suspicion  and  hatred  to  the 
infamous  Poppea,  the  mistress  of  Nero,  was  hunted 
down  and  incarcerated;  although,  fortunately  for 
her,  with  the  devoted  Ursus  to  care  for  her  so  far  as 
he  was  able.  The  ignorant  populace  was  infuriated 
beyond  all  bounds  against  these  peaceable  and 
innocent  ones,  and  continually  demanded  vengeance. 
Day  after  day  there  were  mobs  here  and  there, 
drunken,  turbulent,  and  brutal,  whose  shouts  and 
yells  gradually  settled  into  one  fierce  roar:  "To  the 
lions  with  the  Christians ! ' ' 

The  distraction  and  agony  of  Vinicius  must  be 
imagined.  He  could  not  rest,  night  or  day.  He 
attempted  again  and  again  to  bribe  the  guards,  but 
in  vain.  It  was  death  for  a  soldier  if  such  tampering 
came  to  light. 

"Thou  hast  not  offered  enough,"  said  Petronius. 


142       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

"I  can  tell  thcc  this  much:  the  case  is  desper- 
ate. Lygia  is  imprisoned,  rest  assured,  by  order  of 
Poppea.  We  must  do  this  work  now;  it  may  be 
too  late  to-morrow.  Give  ten  thousand  sestertia  to 
the  guards,  yea,  twice  or  five  times  as  much.  I  tell 
thee,  the  case  is  desperate." 

They  went  on  their  way,  but  as  they  turned  a 
comer,  coming  in  sight  of  the  prison,  Petronius 
suddenly  stopped,  exclaiming,  "We  are  too  late! 
There  are  the  pretorians." 

In  fact,  a  double  line  of  them  now  surrounded 
the  prison.  Their  helmets  and  javelins  shone  mist- 
ily in  the  dim  light  of  the  morning. 

On  the  following  night,  in  the  quarries  of  Jani- 
culum,  "What  dost  thou  wish,  my  son?"  said  Peter, 
as  Vinicius  embraced  his  feet. 

The  young  soldier  in  his  despair  knew  not  where 
else  to  go  for  succor. 

"My  father,"  he  moaned,  "they  have  taken  her 
from  me.  Thou  didst  know  Christ;  implore  Him 
to  save  her." 

"My  dear  son,  I  will  pray  for  her,  but  I  know 
not  the  end.  Even  the  Master  said,  'Let  this  cup 
pass  from  me,'  but  in  vain." 

"I  know,  I  have  heard;  but,  my  father,  I  cannot 
understand.  If  blood  must  be  spilled,  implore 
Christ  to  take  mine.  I  am  a  soldier;  I  can  bear  the 
tortures,  even  if  they  be  doubled.  But  let  Him 
save  her.  He  is  more  powerful  than  Caesar.  Will 
He  not  save  an  innocent  child  who  trusts  in  Him?" 

Peter  closed  his  eyes,  and  fervently  prayed  for 


MARCUS  VINICIUS  143 

the  life  so  dear  to  the  soldier  bowed  before  him. 
Lightning  shot  across  the  sky!  In  the  silence,  the 
chirping  of  a  bird  was  heard  in  the  vineyard,  and 
the  distant  sound  of  treadmills  in  the  via  Salaria. 

"My  son,"  said  the  apostle,  "hast  thou  faith?" 

"Lord,  I  believe,  help  thou  mine  unbelief!"  was 
the  agonizing  answer. 

"Then  have  faith  to  the  end,  for  faith  removes 
mountains.  And  though  thou  wert  to  see  the 
maiden  in  the  jaws  of  a  lion,  yet  believe  that  Christ 
can  save  her.  Believe,  and  pray  to  Him,  and  I  will 
pray  with  thee."  Then  raising  his  eyes  to  heaven 
he  exclaimed:  "Merciful  Christ!  Look  on  this 
aching  heart,  and  console  it.  Merciful  Christ,  thou 
didst  implore  the  Father  that  the  bitter  cup  might 
pass  from  thee;  turn  it  now  from  the  lips  of  thy 
servant!    Amen." 

"O  Christ,  I  am  thine!  Take  me  instead  of  her!" 
was  the  cry  from  the  suppliant  before  him. 

And  the  morning  was  coming. 

Lygia  in  the  prison  found  means  to  write  to  Vini- 
cius,  bidding  him  farewell.  She  was  awaiting,  with 
others,  her  turn  to  be  sent  into  the  arena  to  her 
death.  She  begged  him  to  be  there,  if  possible, 
that  she  might  look  upon  his  loved  face  once  more 
in  life.  She  bade  him  farewell,  but  not  forever,  for 
in  the  life  immortal  she  would  see  him  and  know 
him  for  her  own.  Her  whole  letter  breathed  happi- 
ness and  hope.  He  read  it  with  a  broken  spirit, 
but  at  the  same  time  it  seemed  inconceivable  to  him 


144        FIGURES   FAMED    IN   FICTION 

that  she  should  perish  under  the  claws  of  wild  beasts ; 
that  Christ  should  not  have  pity  on  her.  He  wrote 
her  to  be  brave,  and  to  believe — with  him — that 
Christ  could  save  her,  even  in  the  arena  itseli. 

At  length,  when  the  amphitheater  was  ready, 
the  terrible  scenes  began  which  were  to  pacify  the 
infuriated  people.  The  ignorant  masses,  led  to 
believe  that  the  Christians  had  burned  the  city,  were 
ready  to  exult  in  their  torture.  We  will  not  paint 
the  awful  scenes  of  the  slaughter  of  these  innocent 
victims  by  wild  beasts,  starved  into  fury,  or  their 
crucifixion  on  a  forest  of  crosses.  Amid  the  applause 
of  the  vast  multitude  of  spectators,  the  uproar,  the 
terror,  the  bloodthirsty  yelling,  as  if  all  the  demons 
of  pandemonium  were  let  loose  upon  the  accursed 
scene,  were  heard  the  hymns  of  the  dying  Christians 
and  the  words,  ' '  Pro  Christo !     Pro  Christo ! ' ' 

In  the  court  of  Nero  the  history  of  Lygia  and  Vini- 
cius  was  well  known,  including  her  imprisonment 
and  his  despair.  Petronius  had  done  what  he  could 
for  them,  exerting  his  immense  influence  in  their 
favor,  but  in  vain.  At  one  time  he  had  secured  an 
imperial  command  that  their  marriage  should  occur, 
but  Nero  had  apparently  changed  his  mind.  This 
became  too  evident  when,  upon  Petronius  remind- 
ing him  of  the  wedding  which  had  not  yet  taken 
place,  Nero  replied  with  half-closed  eyes,  and  an 
expression  of  malignity  upon  his  features : 

' '  Very  true.  The  gates  of  the  prison  shall  be  open 
to  her  to-morrow,  and  the  next  day  at  the  amphi- 
theater we  will  discuss  the  wedding  feast." 


MARCUS  VINICIUS  145 

The  report  spread  through  the  court,  and  thence 
throughout  patrician  circles  in  Rome,  that  the 
affairs  of  Vinicius  had  probably  come  to  a  crisis, 
and  it  was  whispered  that  something  extraordinary 
would  occur  at  the  amphitheater  that  day.  Assem- 
bled there,  those  who  had  seen  the  Lygian  princess 
in  the  house  of  Pomponia  were  telling  extravagant 
stories  of  her  beauty,  and  all  eyes  were  turned  toward 
the  unfortunate  suitor,  who  sat  as  usual  with  Caesar's 
retinue,  and  who  was  just  as  uncertain  as  the  rest.  It 
was  noticed  that  Nero  had  doubled  his  pretorian  body- 
guard, as  if  anticipating  an  attack  by  Vinicius,  and 
that  the  giant  among  them  all  stood  near  to  himself. 

Vinicius  knew  from  the  curious  glances  bent  upon 
him  that  there  was  reason  for  dreadful  apprehen- 
sion. He  sat  with  the  cold  perspiration  upon  his 
brow,  alarmed  to  the  depth  of  his  soul.  He  recalled 
the  prayer  of  Peter,  and  said  to  himself  that  Christ 
could  not  permit  that  Lygia  be  tortured  in  the  arena. 
He  began  to  silently  implore  Christ  for  help.  "Thou 
canst!" he  whispered  to  himself,  convulsively  clench- 
ing his  fists.  ' '  Thou  canst ! " 

Before  the  moment  arrived  he  had  not  thought 
it  would  be  so  terrible;  but  now  he  began  to  fear 
that  if  he  were  to  see  the  torture  of  Lygia  his  love 
for  Christ  would  turn  to  hate,  and  his  faith  to  despair ; 
and  at  length  he  no  longer  prayed  for  her  rescue, 
but  only  that  she  should  die  before  they  brought 
her  into  the  arena.  And  yet,  had  not  Peter  said 
that  faith  could  remove  mountains?  And  as  the 
supreme  moment  approached  he  concentrated  his 


14^       FIGURES   FAMED   TN   FICTION 

wliolc  being  on  this  one  word,  faith;  and  waited  for 
a  miracle. 

He  grew  faint,  became  deathly  pale,  and  his  body 
grew  cold.  "Thou  art  ill,"  said  Petronius;  "give 
command  to  bear  thee  home." 

Vinicius  shook  his  head.  He  might  die  here,  but 
he  could  not  go  out. 

The  prefect  of  the  city  waved  a  red  handkerchief, 
the  gate  opposite  Caesar's  podium  opened,  and  the 
giant  Ursus  stepped  into  the  arena.  He  walked  to 
the  center,  and  looked  around  as  if  to  see  what  he 
had  to  meet.  He  was  known  to  the  court  and  the 
Augustians  as  the  man  who  had  killed  Croton,  and 
a  murmur  passed  along  the  benches  as  they  looked 
at  his  mighty  limbs,  his  immense  stature,  and  his 
breast  which  was  like  two  shields  joined  together. 
Like  a  marble  colossus  he  stood,  looking  inquiringly, 
now  at  Caesar,  now  at  the  spectators. 

Suddenly  the  trumpets  sounded,  another  door 
was  opened,  and  an  enormous  German  buffalo, 
known  as  the  aurocks,  amid  the  shouts  of  the  besti- 
ari  rushed  into  the  arena,  with  the  body  of  a  naked 
woman  fastened  to  his  back. 

' '  Lygia !     Lygia ! ' '  cried  Vinicius. 

And  then  his  senses  seemed  benumbed ;  he  did  not 
even  feel  that  Petronius  at  that  moment  mercifully 
covered  his  head  and  face  with  his  toga.  He  was 
incapable  of  thinking;  only  his  lips  unconsciously 
repeated :  "  I  believe !     I  believe !     I  believe ! ' ' 

The  great  amphitheater  grew  silent.  The  Augus- 
tians, like  one  man,  rose  from  their  seats;  for  on  the 


MARCUS  VINICIUS  147 

aiona  something  unusual  was  transpiring.  The 
mighty  Lygian,  seeing  his  queen  on  the  horns  of  a 
wild  beast,  sprang  at  the  raging  animal  as  if  touched 
by  a  red-hot  iron,  and  in  another  moment  had  seized 
him  by  the  horns. 

"Look!"  cried  Petronius,  and  removed  the  toga 
from  the  head  of  Vinicius.  The  latter  rose,  and, 
throwing  back  his  head,  fixed  his  vacant  stare  upon 
the  scene  before  him. 

The  Lygian  held  the  beast  by  the  horns.  The 
man's  feet  sank  into  the  sand  to  his  ankles,  his  back 
was  bent  like  a  drawn  bow,  his  head  sank  into  his 
shoulders,  his  muscles  stood  out,  almost  bursting 
the  skin,  but  he  held  the  animal  down.  They  re- 
mained as  motionless  as  a  marble  group.  The  beast 
as  well  as  the  man  was  in  the  sand  to  his  knees,  and 
his  dark,  shaggy  body  was  drawn  into  a  ball.  Whose 
strength  would  first  give  out?  That  was  the  ques- 
tion in  the  minds  of  all.  And  all  was  still.  Only 
the  crackling  of  the  fire  in  the  torches  and  the  fall 
of  the  cinders  was  heard  in  the  circus.  It  seemed 
to  all  that  the  struggle  was  lasting  for  ages. 

A  dull  roar  resembling  a  groan  was  heard,  and 
again  there  was  silence;  and  the  astonished  specta- 
tors saw  the  enormous  head  of  the  buffalo  begin  to 
turn  in  the  hands  of  the  Lygian. 

The  giant's  face,  neck,  and  hands  turned  purple, 
his  back  bent  still  more,  and  his  whistling  breath 
mingled  with  the  dull  roar  of  the  buffalo.  The  head 
of  the  beast  kept  turning.  In  another  minute  the 
cracking  of  breaking  bones  was  heard,  and  soon  the 
10 


I4S       FIGURES  FAMED   IN   FICTION 

combat  was  over.  Quickly  the  victor  removed  the 
unconscious  form  from  the  dead  animal.  His  face 
was  pale,  and  the  perspiration  was  streaming  from 
his  shoulders  and  arms.  He  stood  unconscious  for 
a  moment,  then  raised  his  eyes  and  cast  a  glance 
around  the  amphitheater. 

The  multitude  had  gone  wild.  The  applause 
sounded  like  the  roar  of  the  ocean.  And  everywhere 
were  heard  cries  for  mercy,  passionate  and  stubborn, 
which  soon  turned  into  one  unbroken  chorus.  The 
people  worshiped  physical  strength,  and  to  them 
the  giant  was  a  demi-god. 

In  the  midst  of  the  clamor  Ursus  approached  the 
podium  of  Nero  and,  holding  out  the  body  of  the 
maiden,  raised  his  imploring  eyes  as  if  to  say : ' '  Have 
mercy  on  her!  Save  her!  It  was  for  her  sake  I 
did  that!" 

At  sight  of  the  fainting  girl  the  imperial  court, 
the  knights,  and  the  senators  became  equally  agi- 
tated. Her  pathetic,  unconscious  figure,  as  white 
as  alabaster,  her  beauty,  the  danger  from  which  she 
had  been  saved,  touched  every  heart. 

Meanwhile  Ursus  walked  around  the  arena,  hold- 
ing out  the  form  of  his  queen  as  if  begging  that  her 
life  might  be  saved. 

Vinicius  sprang  from  his  seat,  jumped  over  the 
barrier  into  the  arena,  ran  toward  the  giant,  and 
threw  his  toga  over  the  naked  body.  Then  he  tore 
the  tunic  from  his  breast,  showing  the  scars  he  had 
received  in  battle  in  Armenia,  and  stretched  out  his 
hands  to  the  people. 


MARCUS  VINICIUS  149 

At  this  the  enthusiasm  of  the  thousands  burst 
all  bounds.  They  not  only  took  the  part  of  the 
giant  but  rose  in  defense  of  the  girl,  the  soldier,  and 
their  love.  The  depraved,  malignant  passion  of 
Nero,  which  rose  in  angry  opposition  to  their  de- 
mands, was  finally  overborne,  and  the  sign  for  for- 
giveness was  given. 

The  rescue  was  assured. 

As  Lygia  was  borne  by  four  Bithynians  to  the 
house  of  Petronius,  Vinicius  walked  alongside  as  if 
in  a  dream.  Again  and  again,  looking  on  her  dear 
face  as  she  lay  seemingly  asleep,  he  murmured,  "It 
was  Christ  that  saved  her." 

"My  Lord,"  said  Ursus  as  he  walked  with  him, 
"it  was  the  Saviour  who  rescued  her.  When  I  saw 
her  fastened  on  the  horns  of  the  aurocks,  I  heard 
His  voice  saying,  'Defend  her'!  The  prison  had 
taken  my  strength,  but  He  gave  it  back  to  me, 
blessed  be  His  name!" 

When,  that  night,  she  regained  consciousness,  she 
thought  at  first  she  was  in  heaven.  Vinicius  was 
kneeling  beside  her,  and  she  smiled  and  tried  to  ask 
where  they  were. 

"Christ  hath  saved  thee,"  said  he,  "and  hath 
given  thee  back  to  me."  She  smiled  again,  and  fell 
into  a  deep  slumber. 

Vinicius  remained  on  his  knees  beside  her,  uncon- 
scious of  those  who  came  and  went.  His  soul  was 
at  Christ's  feet  in  an  ecstasy  of  gratitude. 

When,  at  the  last,  they  were  safe  in  Sicily,  "Car- 
rissime,"  he  wrote  to  Petronius,  "we  are  living  here 


i=;o 


FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 


in  peace  and  the  love  of  Christ.  We  often  talk  of 
the  past  as  if  it  were  a  dream,  thanking  God  for  this 
blessed,  new  faith  that  it  brought  us.  Thou  hast 
seen  what  fortitude  and  consolation  that  faith  can 
give  when  trouble  and  death  look  in  at  the  door. 
Come,  then,  and  see  what  happiness  it  can  give  in 
the  life  of  the  common  days.  Hitherto  people  had 
no  knowledge  of  a  God  who  could  be  loved  by  man; 
therefore  they  loved  not  one  another.  It  was  Christ 
first  taught  me  how  to  love.  Canst  thou  understand 
me,  O  Epicurean,  when  I  tell  thee  that  my  love  for 
Lygia  is  love  of  her  immortal  soul  ?  When  youth  and 
beauty  fade  away,  this  love  remains,  and  will  never 
pass  away.  Verily,  I  say  unto  thee,  it  is  a  love  thou 
knowest  not.  Come  to  us,  my  friend,  and  learn  of 
Christ,  and  know  this  love  and  this  peace  and, 
besides  all,  the  hope  of  heaven." 

But  he  came  not;  for  the  sensual  life  and  unbelief 
had  claimed  him  for  their  own. 

Thus  did  Christ  triumph  in  the  young  Roman 
tribune — one  of  the  many  Christian  conquests  of 
those  early  days.  There  entered  into  it,  indeed, 
a  beautiful  human  passion.  But  the  story  of  his 
life  is  the  story  of  the  development  of  a  Roman  soul. 
A  growth  out  of  paganism,  with  its  sensualism  and 
cruelty,  into  the  purity  and  pity  and  conquering 
love  which  Christianity  gave  the  world. 


ROBERT  FALCONER 

ROBERT  FALCONER,  at  the  age  of  four- 
teen, thought  he  had  never  seen  his  father. 
And  yet  after  a  time  the  memory  grew  of  a  man 
who  called  at  the  house  one  day  and  had  a  private 
interview  with  Robert's  grandmother,  with  whom 
the  lad  then  lived.  That  was  years  ago,  and  the 
man  had  completely  disappeared,  and  Robert's 
grandmother  never  spoke  of  him.  That  mystery 
hovered  around  his  boyish  mind  and  grew  in  fas- 
cination with  his  growing  years,  until  the  desire  to 
solve  it  became  the  purpose  of  his  life. 

Mrs.  Falconer,  his  father's  mother,  was  a  beauti- 
ful old  lady.  Robert  in  after  years  held  her  to  be 
one  of  the  noblest  women  God  ever  made,  but  this 
was  because  he  came  to  know  her  heart.  To  most 
people  she  was  severe,  unsmiling,  as  full  of  con- 
science as  one  could  be.  In  doing  the  kindest  thing 
in  the  world  she  would  speak  in  a  tone  that  suggested 
unpleasant  obligation,  and  the  one  receiving  the 
kindness  felt  a  chill.  But  her  grandson  was  not  an 
ordinary  child ;  and  his  large,  deep  nature  gradually 
finding  out  the  deeper  things  in  her,  he  came  to 
regard  her  as  a  right  noble  soul. 

The  story  of  Robert's  hfe  gains  its  deepest  charm 
from  this,  namely,  that  the  boy,  reared  in  hard, 
practical,  severe,  prosaic  Scotland,  yet  had  a  poet's 
soul.     This  appeared  especially  in  his  passion  for 

151 


152       FTCURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

music.  Little  of  it  had  he  heard,  to  be  sure;  the 
church  pi-ahii  singing  was  not  musical.  But  the 
old  shoemaker  — Dooble  Sandy,  they  called  him  — 
possessed  a  violin  and  was  no  mean  performer.  To 
be  sure  he  had  sold  it  for  drink  just  now,  but  Robert 
never  could  forget  the  waking  of  his  soul  when  first 
he  heard  its  low,  sweet  strains.  One  day,  in  the 
old  attic,  he  made  a  discovery.  It  was  nothing  less 
than  a  violin  that  had  belonged  to  his  grandfather; 
for  there  was  music  in  the  family  line — his  great- 
grandfather had  played  the  pipes  at  the  battle  of 
Culloden.  It  was  absolutely  necessary  that  the 
discovery  be  kept  a  secret  from  Mrs.  Falconer,  for 
she  regarded  the  violin  as  the  handmaid  of  Satan, 
and  would  as  soon  he  had  been  taught  gambling 
as  music.  So  he  took  it  to  Sandy,  who  welcomed  it 
with  enthusiasm.  The  moment  he  began  to  play, 
his  face  began  to  shine.     He  drew  a  long,  low  note. 

"Just  hear  her,  will  ye?"  said  he.  "To  breathe 
music  like  that!  She's  a  bonny  leddy,"  and  he 
played  on  and  on,  while  Robert  almost  held  his 
breath.  "Ay,  she's  beautiful!"  stroking  the  back 
of  the  violin  with  his  open  palm. 

"Hoots,  mon!"  he  would  say  to  Robert,  "don't 
handle  her  like  that!  Take  hold  of  her  as  if  she 
was  a  leevin'  crater.  Ye  must  stroke  her  canny, 
and  while  the  music  out  of  her.  Come  to  me,  my 
bonny  leddy;  ye '11  tell  me  yer  story  now,  won't  ye, 
my  pet?"  And  it  all  fell  in  with  the  lad's  own  feel- 
ing, and  gave  it  expression.  He  made  astonishing 
progress  with  the  instrument. 


ROBERT  FALCONER  153 

Robert  could  not  remember  his  mother;  but  he 
had  heard  or  dreamed  that  she  was  a  lovely  woman. 
One  day  in  the  garret  among  some  old  bundles  he 
found  a  little  workbox,  and  in  it  his  mother's  picture. 
Such  a  beautiful,  loving  face,  with  dark  hair  and 
blue  eyes !  The  miniature  was  set  in  pearls.  Robert 
knew  they  were  pearls — how,  he  could  not  tell — 
and  that  pearls  had  something  to  do  with  the  New 
Jerusalem.  With  the  picture  he  found  some  faded 
writing — the  copy  of  a  well-known  hymn — and 
underneath,  the  words,  "O  Lord,  my  heart  is  very 
sore." 

He  knew  little  about  it,  but  felt  sure  it  was  her 
grief  for  the  husband  who  had  left  her.  The  sad- 
ness of  it  all  so  overpowered  him  that  he  burst  out 
crying.  Certain  it  is  that  in  that  hour  the  boy  made 
a  great  stride  toward  manhood. 

"Well,  Robert,  how's  the  violin?"  said  Mr. 
Lammie,  a  gentleman  who  took  some  interest  in 
Robert,  and  whom  he  was  allowed  to  visit.  "Can 
ye  play  'The  Flowers  on  the  Forest'  now?  That's 
a  bonnie  tune." 

"Ay,  can  I,"  said  Robert,  and  played  it  through 
without  blundering  a  single  note. 

"That's  verra  weel,  Robert,  but  ye  should  'a 
heard  yer  grandfather  play  it.  He  would  take  his 
violin  and  draw  the  verra  soul  out  of  her.  To 
hear  the  bow  cooin'  an'  wailin'  an'  grievin'  over  the 
strings — why,  it  would  ha'  made  ye  see  the  desolate 
lands  o'  bonnie  Scotland,  with  all  the  lasses  out  in 
the  harvest  fields  doin'  the  men's  work  as  well  as 


154       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

their  own,  an'  a-grievin'  for  the  brave  lads  that  lay 
upon  red  Flodden  field.  Ah!  but  he  put  his  soul 
into  his  playin',  he  did!  I  tell  ye,  Robert,  ye  can  o 
play  the  violin  till  ye  can  make  her  weep." 

Boy  though  he  was,  Robert  half  knew  this  before. 
That  evening  he  walked  through  the  fields,  his 
imagination  full  of  the  old  Scottish  history.  Sud- 
denly the  wind  arose  with  a  low  sough  out  of  the 
northwest,  and  rustled  the  heads  of  the  barley. 
There  was  no  moon.  He  thought  of  the  old  sadness 
of  other  days,  and  then  the  thought  of  his  mother's 
written  words,  "O  Lord,  my  heart  is  very  sore," 
made  the  tears  start. 

The  meaning,  the  music  of  the  night  arose  in  his 
soul.  He  went  straightway  to  his  room,  seized  the 
violin,  nor  laid  it  down  again  till  he  could  draw  from 
it  at  will  a  sound  like  the  moaning  of  the  wind  through 
the  barley  sheaves.  Then  he  went  downstairs. 
"I  think  I  can  play  it  now,"  he  said;  and  when  the 
tune  was  over  his  friend  exclaimed,  "Well  dune, 
Robert;  ye 'II  be  a  player  yet." 

And  then,  too,  in  those  early  years,  the  boy's 
soul — growing  as  it  was — began  to  wake  to  the 
mystery  of  nature.  He  loved  the  grass  and  the 
water  and  the  trees.  The  great  sky  bending  above 
him,  the  clouds  of  the  east  with  their  edges  gold- 
blasted  with  sunrise,  the  gentle  wind  waving  its 
light  wing  in  his  face — the  divinity  of  it  all  entered 
his  soul  along  with  the  music  he  loved  so  well. 

A  strange  longing  after  something  he  knew  not 
nor  could  name,  awoke  within  him.     The  soul  in 


ROBERT  FALCONER  155 

nature,  the  spirit  that  moves  in  the  wind — the 
great  power  in  the  sky — the  boy  with  his  growing 
years  grew  into  a  loving,  reverent  sense  of  it  all. 
Was  it  not  the  Divine  Spirit  stirring  within  him 
which  was  to  lead  him,  through  much  conflict,  to 
the  broad,  deep  truth  of  the  Christian  faith? 

The  mystery  that  surrounded  his  father  was 
lightened  a  little,  one  night,  in  a  strange  way.  It 
chanced  that  he  was  passing  through  the  hall  late 
in  the  evening  when  he  heard  a  sound  from  Mrs. 
Falconer's  room. 

"O  Lord!"  he  heard  her  saying,  "I've  a  sore, 
sore  heart.  My  own  Andrew — to  think  o'  him  as  a 
reprobate!  O  Lord,  couldna  he  be  elected  yet? 
Is  there  no  turnin'  o'  Thy  decrees?  Who  knows  if 
he  be  livin'?  Oh,  the  drink  an'  the  ill  company 
that  took  him  from  us!  But,  O  Lord,  I  canna  bear 
that  his  soul  is  among  the  lost.  Eh!  to  think  o' 
the  torments  o'  that  place,  an'  the  smoke  that  goes 
up  forever,  smothering  the  stars!  An'  my  Andrew 
down  in  the  heart  of  it,  cryin',  an'  me  no  able  to  go 
to  him!  O  Lord,  I  canna  say  'Thy  will  be  done'! 
But  dinna  lay  it  to  my  charge ;  for  if  ye  were  a  mother 
yersel'  ye  wouldna  put  him  there.  O  Lord,  turn 
him,  turn  him  from  the  error  o'  his  ways,  before 
it  is  too  late,  too  late!" 

Robert  felt  he  ought  not  to  listen,  and  yet  he  could 
not  help  listening.  His  father,  then,  was  one  of 
the  wicked,  and  the  awful  God  was  against  him. 
And  when  he  died  he  would  go  to  hell.  But  he 
was  not  dead  yet;   and   a   great  resolve   came    to 


156       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

Robert  that  when  he  should  become  a  man  he 
would  seek  him,  and  bring  him  back  to  goodness 
and  to  God. 

The  history  of  Robert's  soul  had  been  a  barren 
one.  Its  life  had  been  repressed  by  the  sternness 
of  duty  and  by  a  religion  without  love.  He  could 
not  remember  that  anybody  had  ever  kissed  him ;  he 
had  no  idea  that  God  loved  him.  His  soul  was  sad 
and  hungry;  but  now  it  had  begun  to  grow.  The 
finer  faculties,  the  sense  of  beauty,  the  longing  for 
love,  the  deeper,  richer,  holier  life  with  all  its  wonder 
and  mystery  and  sacredness — all  this  was  coming. 

And  this  blessed,  divine  unfolding  was  met  and 
chilled  by  the  wretched  theology  of  the  time,  the 
low  conception  that  made  God  to  be  little  other 
than  a  demon.  Hell  was  the  deepest  truth  of  the 
system,  and  the  love  of  God  was  thought  of  as  not 
so  deep  as  hell.  True — let  us  acknowledge  it — 
they  said  they  believed  that  God  is  love,  and  some 
there  were  who  lived  as  if  they  believed  it.  Still 
the  creed  they  taught  their  children  had  as  its  first 
article,  "I  believe  in  hell."  As  only  the  elect  were 
able  to  escape  the  awful  afterwards,  the  boy  made 
frantic  efforts  to  believe  himself  one  of  them.  He 
had  fits  of  doing  religious  ofifices  in  order  to  save 
his  soul, — such  as  going  to  church  three  times  on 
Sunday ;  keeping  the  Sabbath  strictly ;  never  reading 
any  but  religious  books;  never  whistling  on  the 
Sabbath;  by  religious  talk  chiefly  theoretical, — all 
the  time  feeling  that  God  was  watching,  and  ready 
to  pounce  upon  him  if  he  failed  once. 


ROBERT  FALCONER  157 

The  horrible  vapors  of  these  vain  endeavors  sug- 
gested Tartarus,  and  God  was  very  Hke  to  Satan, 
although  Robert  never  dared  to  really  think  so. 
Nevertheless  his  soul  was  growing,  and  the  current 
religious  teaching  grew  more  and  more  impossible 
of  belief.  The  pity  of  it  was  that  no  one  dreamed  of 
telling  him  of  the  great  father  heart  that  finds  its 
very  life  in  loving;  how  for  this  the  Lord  Christ 
came;  how  He  revealed  God  as  living  and  loving 
like  the  most  loving  man  or  woman  in  all  the  world, 
only  infinitely  more,  and  in  ways  that  we  cannot 
understand,  so  that  even  to  live  in  this  His  world 
is  the  soul  of  eternal  jubilation, 

Robert  had  strange  thoughts  sometimes  which  he 
never  dared  express  because  he  knew  enough  to 
know  they  were  rank  heresy.  Yet  ever  since  he  had 
heard  his  grandmother's  prayer— that  out-pouring 
of  her  great  sorrow — it  occurred  to  him  that  some 
of  his  thoughts,  if  he  expressed  them,  might  serve  to 
comfort  her.  After  their  frugal  meal  one  evening, 
at  the  family  worship  that  followed,  Robert  suddenly 
looked  up  from  his  Bible. 

"  Grandmither,  do  ye  think  that  ither  folk  than 
Christ  might  suffer  for  the  sins  o'  their  neebors?" 

"Ay,  laddie,  many  a  one  has  to  do  that,  but  not  to 
mak  atonement,  ye  know;  it  wouldna  satisfy  the  Lord. 
That  must  be  the  innercent  to  suffer  for  the  guilty." 

"I  understand  that, "  said  Robert,  who  had  heard 
it  so  often  that  he  had  never  thought  of  trying  to 
understand  it.  "But  if  we  go  to  the  gude  place 
we'll  be  all  innercent,  won't  we,  grandmither ? " 


158       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

"Ay,  that  we  will!  Washed  spotless  an'  pure,  an' 
set  doon  at  the  table  with  Him  an'  His  Father." 

"Well,  now,  grandmither,  I've  been  a-thinkin'  of 
a  plan  for  almost  emptyin'  hell." 

"God  save  us!  What's  in  the  lad's  head  now? 
Dare  ye  meddle  wi'  such  things,  Robert!" 

"But,  grandmither,  all  them  that  sits  doon  to  the 
supper  o'  the  Lamb  will  sit  there  because  Christ 
suffered  the  punishment  due  to  their  sins?" 

"Dootless,  laddie." 

"But  it'll  be  some  sore  upon  them  that  sit  there 
aitin'  an'  drinkin'  an'  enjoyin'  themselves,  when 
every  noo  an'  then  there'll  come  a  sough  o'  wailin' 
up  fra'  the  ill  place,  an'  a  smell  o'  burnin'  ill  to  bide." 

"What  put  that  in  your  head,  Robert?  There's 
no  reason  to  think  hell's  so  near  to  heaven  as  that." 

"Well,  but  they'll  know  all  the  same,  whether 
they  smell  it  or  not.  Grandmither,  do  ye  think 
that  a  body  wud  be  allowed  to  speak  a  word  in 
public  there — at  the  lang  table,  I  mean?" 

"What  for  no,  if  it  were  done  with  modesty  and 
for  a  gude  reason?" 

"Well,  if  I  am  let  in  there,  the  verra  first  night  I 
sit  down  with  the  leave  of  them,  I  am  goin'  to  rise 
up  an'  say:  'Brethren  an'  sisters,  the  whole  of  ye, 
hearken  to  me  for  just  one  minute;  an',  O  Lord,  if 
I  say  wrang,  just  rebuke  me  an'  bid  me  sit  down. 
We're  all  here  by  grace  an'  not  by  our  own  merit, 
as  ye  all  know  better  nor  I  can  tell  ye.  But  it's 
just  ruggin'  an'  rivin'  at  my  heart  to  think  o'  them 
that's  down  there,  a-sufferin'  an'  a-wailin'.      Now 


ROBERT  FALCONER  159 

we  have  no  merit,  an'  they  have  no  merit,  an'  what 
for  are  we  here  an'  they  there?  We're  washed 
clean  an'  innercent  noo;  an'  it  seems  to  me  we  might 
bear  some  o'  the  sins  o'  them  that  has  over  many. 
I  call  upon  every  one  o'  ye  that  has  a  fren'  or  a 
neebor  down  yonner  to  rise  up,  nor  taste  nor  bite 
nor  sup  more  till  we  go  up  a'  togither  to  the  fut  o' 
the  throne  an'  pray  the  Lord  to  let  us  go  an'  du  as 
the  Maister  did  afore  us — an'  bear  their  griefs  an' 
carry  their  sorrows  down  in  hell  there,  if  it  may  be 
they  will  repent  and  get  remission  o'  their  sins,  an' 
come  up  here  with  us  at  the  lang  last,  all  through 
the  merits  of  oor  Saviour  Jesus  Christ,  at  the  heid 
o'  the  table  there.     Amen!'  " 

Half  ashamed  of  this  long  speech,  half  overcome 
by  the  feelings  fighting  within  him,  and  altogether 
bewildered,  Robert  burst  out  crying  like  a  baby, 
and  ran  from  the  room.  By  and  by,  when  he  came 
back,  Mrs.  Falconer  was  very  gentle  with  him;  it 
was  a  new  sensation. 

She  gently  warned  him  against  trusting  to  such 
fancies,  and  above  all  of  judging  the  Almighty, 
adding,  "Pray  fer  yer  father,  Robert.  Gie  the 
Lord  no  rest,  till  He  lead  him  to  see  the  error  of 
his  ways." 

And  then  they  knelt  together,  as  they  did  every 
Sabbath  evening.  And  afterwards  she  wiped  the 
tears  from  Robert's  cheek  and  then  from  her 
own;  and  from  that  moment  Robert  knew  that  he 
loved  her. 

As  we  have  been  trying  to  say,  the  sweetness  of 


i6o       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

music  and  the  beauty  of  nature  were  opening  the 
gates  of  paradise  to  the  boy's  poet-soul,  while  an 
unlovely  and  untrue  theology  tried  to  close  them. 
The  time  came  in  his  life  —  as  it  not  infrequently 
comes  in  the  life  of  a  susceptible  boy  —  when  a 
lovely  woman  threw  them  wide  open. 

Mary  St.  John  was  an  English  lady  who  had  come 
to  the  village  to  live  with  relatives  for  a  time.  The 
people  of  the  kirk  were  prejudiced  against  her  for 
at  least  two  reasons — she  had  a  popish  name  and 
she  played  the  piano.  Robert  soon  found  out  this 
last,  for  she  lived  near  to  Mrs.  Falconer's.  He 
would  stand  in  the  darkness  by  her  window,  his 
boy  face  transfigured  by  the  passage  of  the  sweet 
sounds  through  his  brain,  which  they  swept  like  the 
wind  of  God.  And  sometimes  the  old  shoemaker 
listened  with  him. 

"Lord,  man!  Put  yer  soul  in  yer  ears,  and 
hearken!"  he  would  say,  and  the  two  would  drink 
in  the  beauty  and  the  glory  as  the  gates  swung 
wider. 

He  used  to  steal  away  from  the  house  to  play  his 
loved  violin.  On  one  of  these  expeditions  he  sud- 
denly came  upon  the  lady,  and  hesitated  whether 
to  speak  or  to  fly.  But  she  spoke,  and  the  tones  of 
her  voice,  with  its  beautiful  English,  enchanted  him. 
He  was  a  Lowland  country  boy,  his  rude  speech 
almost  unintelligible,  and  yet  she  managed  to  under- 
stand him.  The  first  sight  of  his  singularly  noble 
face  attracted  her;  and  learning  of  his  passion  for 
music,  she  became  deeply  interested  in  him.     She 


ROBERT  FALCONER  i6i 

met  him  at  her  gate  one  day.  He  pulled  off  his  cap 
and  would  have  passed  her,  but  she  stopped  him. 

"I  am  going  to  walk  a  little  way.  Would  you 
like  to  go  with  me  ? ' ' 

"That  I  would!"  he  said,  and  walked  on  as  if  in 
another  world. 

"Robert,"  she  said,  "would  you  like  to  play  the 
piano?" 

"Eh!  mem!"  said  he,  with  a  deep  suspiration. 
"But  do  ye  think  I  could?  I'm  feared  I  shall  clean 
disgust  ye." 

"If  you  really  want  to  learn,  there  will  be  no  fear 
of  that,"  she  said. 

But  oh,  the  strangeness  and  the  beauty!  To 
hear  her  wake  the  soul  of  her  instrument,  and  to 
really  touch  it  himself!  The  elegance  of  the  sur- 
roundings— what  to  do  with  himself — the  ill-at-ease 
feeling!  The  lady  of  the  house,  when  Miss  St.  John 
presented  him,  gave  him  two  of  her  finger  tips  to 
do  something  or  other  with;  Robert  did  not  know 
what,  and  so  let  them  go.  As  for  his  teacher,  his 
divinity,  I  can  hardly  describe  her  as  she  seemed  to 
him.  She  was  tall,  and  could  not  help  being  stately 
as  well  as  lovely;  as  full  of  repose  as  Handel's  music, 
with  a  contralto  voice  to  make  you  weep,  and  eyes 
that  would  have  seemed,  but  for  their  maidenliness, 
to  be  always  ready  to  fold  you  in  their  clear,  gray 
depths.  She  had  suffered  grievous  disappoint- 
ment— how,  I  do  not  know — and  had  withdrawn  to 
the  Scottish  Lowlands,  weary  of  some  things,  but 
believing  in  God's  love  and  in  music. 


i62       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

When  she  would  worship  God  it  was  in  music 
that  she  found  the  chariot  of  fire  in  which  to  ascend 
heavenward.  Music  was  the  divine  thing  in  the 
world  to  her,  and  to  find  one  loving  music  with  his 
inmost  soul  was  to  find  a  fellow  believer.  And 
Robert  loved  the  tasks  she  set  him,  hardly  conscious 
of  time  or  sense  as  he  sat  at  the  piano. 

But  Mrs.  Falconer  found  out  the  use  of  the  violin  — 
he  had  incautiously  played  some  soft  strains  in  the 
garret  one  day — and  when  he  saw  his  loved  in- 
strument in  the  flames  upon  the  hearth,  the  strings 
bursting  and  shriveling,  and  his  grandmother  sitting 
stem  as  a  Druidess,  watching  the  sacrifice  with  a 
grim  satisfaction,  for  a  moment  he  could  hardly 
believe  his  eyes.  Then  as  it  all  came  over  him  he 
rushed  away  with  a  great,  helpless  cry.  Where 
he  went  he  knew  not,  but  ere  long  he  met  his  teacher 
and  friend. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Robert?"  she 
asked  kindly. 

His  answer  was  a  storm  of  weeping.  Her  heart 
was  sore  for  the  despairing  boy  as  he  stood  sobbing 
before  her.  She  drew  him  to  a  seat,  and  did  her 
best  to  soothe  him.  When  he  had  told  her  the  story 
she  was  silent  a  moment,  and  then  in  a  gush  of 
motherly  indignation  she  kissed  him  on  the  forehead. 
From  that  chrism  he  arose  a  king ! 

Thus,  as  the  days  came  and  went,  the  love  he 
bore  his  teacher — he  was  fourteen  and  she  was 
twenty-six — and  the  influence  of  her  beauty  began 
to  mold  him  after  her  likeness,  so  that  he  grew  nice 


ROBERT   FALCONER  163 

in  his  person  and  dress,  smoothed  the  roughness 
and  broadness  of  his  speech,  learning  the  English 
which  was  so  sweet  upon  her  tongue.  Rough 
diamond  of  a  Scotch  boy  that  he  was,  he  came  thus 
under  the  hand  of  this  tender,  beautiful,  sweet- 
hearted  English  woman.  Had  she  been  an  angel 
from  heaven  he  could  not  have  worshiped  her 
more.  And  was  she  not  sent  of  heaven  to  continue 
the  work  his  sweet  mother  had  early  laid  down? 

News  was  brought  one  day  of  his  father's  death; 
it  seemed  to  be  a  true  report,  and  Mrs.  Falconer 
believed  it.  The  agony  resulting  was  terrible.  He 
was  gone!  gone!  her  Andrew!  gone  down  into  the 
pains  of  hell  forever!  Her  prayer  was  one  great 
and  bitter  cry  for  submission  to  the  divine  will; 
and  the  words  found  voice  again:  "O  Lord,  I  canna 
say  'Thy  will  be  done'!  But  dinna  lay  it  to  my 
charge,  for  if  Ye  were  a  mither  ye  wouldna  put  him 
down  there  in  the  burnin'  an'  the  cryin'." 

Thus  was  the  poor  soul  divided  against  itself  — 
one  moment  in  submission  to  the  will  of  the  dread 
God;  the  next,  all  the  human  tenderness  rushing  in 
like  a  flood ! 

Oh,  rebellious  mother  heart,  dearer  to  the  Infinite 
Love  than  that  which  beats  laboriously  under  Gen- 
evan gown  or  Lutheran  surplice!  If  thou  wouldst 
read  by  thine  own  large  light  instead  of  by  the 
phosphorescent  glimmer  of  the  brains  of  theologians 
thou  mightest  look  into  the  eyes  of  the  Infinite 
Love  and  begin  to  understand  that  the  God  who  had 
given  His  Son  to  save  his  brethren  would  do  more 
11 


1 64       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

for  thy  lost  one  than  thou  canst  ask  or  even  think! 

Now  all  this — the  hard  dogmas,  and  the  awful 
God,  and  the  severity  of  life  as  under  his  eye — began 
to  work  a  storm  in  Robert's  soul.  Music  and  nature 
and  love  had  begun  to  open  the  gates  of  paradise, 
but  there  was  something  wrong  about  the  God  of 
music  and  nature  and  love  and  paradise.  A  God 
who  was  awful;  who  chose  from  the  first  to  send 
some  souls  into  the  burning;  a  God  who  did  not 
love  everybody ! 

The  boy  prayed  to  God,  but  had  no  heart  in  it; 
and  finally  said,  in  his  boy's  heart,  "I  don't  want 
Him  to  love  me  if  He  don't  love  everybody."  And 
then  came  the  grave  doubt  whether  God  heard  him 
at  all.  He  had  yet  to  learn  that  God  was  the  great 
father  heart ;  and  that  as  to  prayer,  He  answers  it  in 
general  terms  of  life,  uplifting  the  spirits  that  with- 
out Him  would  droop  and  die. 

When  Robert  grew  to  man's  estate  he  looked 
back  over  the  years  and  knew  that  God  was  the 
heart  of  the  universe,  that  worship  was  something 
more  than  a  name,  and  that  God  had  really  been 
present  in  all  his  life. 

There  was  another  thing  in  his  character  that  grew 
with  his  growing  years,  namely,  his  love  for  the  un- 
fortunate, the  sinning,  the  despairing.  There  was 
the  little  homeless  boy,  somewhat  younger  than 
himself;  he  persuaded  Mrs.  Falconer  to  give  him 
shelter  for  a  time.  It  was  pure  pity,  out  of  the 
boy's  tender  heart ;  nothing  less  or  more.  And  when 
the  peasant  girl  Jessie  went  wrong  and  was  scorned 


ROBERT  FALCONER  165 

of  men,  the  boy — large-hearted  beyond  his  years — 
implored  help  of  Mary. 

"Dinna  be  angry  wi'  me,"  he  pleaded,  "but  be 
merciful  to  the  lassie.  Who's  to  help  her  that  can 
no  more  look  any  one  in  the  face  but  the  clear-eyed 
woman  that  would  look  the  sun  himself  oot  o'  the 
sky  if  he  dared  say  a  word  against  her?  It's  one 
woman  that  can  save  another." 

"But  what  can  I  do,  Robert?" 

"I  ca,nna  tell  ye  that;  ye  must  find  oot  for  yer- 
self.  Would  it  be  strange  if  a  kiss  would  be  the 
savin'  of  her,  poor  thing?" 

But  it  proved  to  be  too  late  for  such  loving  min- 
istry ;  the  poor  girl  had  disappeared.  Years  afterward 
Robert  found  her  in  the  streets  of  Aberdeen,  and 
restored  her  to  her  home. 

And  the  same  compassionate  instinct  led  him  to 
the  bedside  of  poor  Sandy  when  a  paralytic  stroke 
had  laid  him  low.  Mrs.  Falconer  was  perfectly  sure 
it  was  a  judgment  for  playing  the  violin ;  and  Sandy 
himself  was  sure  he  was  on  the  road  to  the  kirkyard, 
and  that  beyond  that  was  hell.  The  man  had  been 
given  to  drink  and  abuse  of  his  good  wife.  The  min- 
ister talked  with  him  very  faithfully  as  to  his  sins, 
the  only  pity  being  that  he  misrepresented  God. 

"Man,  Robert,"  said  Sandy,  "dinna  ye  think  he 
was  some  sore  upon  me?" 

"I  du  think  it,"  said  Robert. 

* '  Somethin'  bears  it  in  upon  me  that  /He  wouldna 
be  so  sore  upon  me.  It 's  somethin'  or  other  in  the 
New  Testa»ment.     Couldna  ye  find  it  for  me?" 


i66       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

Robert  could  think  of  nothing  but  the  parable  of 
the  prodigal  son. 

"There,"  said  Sandy,  "I  telled  ye  so!  Not  one 
word  aboot  the  poor  lad's  sins!  It  was  all  a  hurry 
and  a  scurry  to  get  the  best  robe  an'  the  ring,  an' 
then  the  feastin'  an'  the  dancin'.  O  Lord,"  he 
broke  out,  "I'm  comin'  home  as  fast  as  I  can,  but 
my  sins  hang  aboot  my  feet  and  winna  let  me.  I 
expect  no  ring,  an'  no  robe,  an'  no  feastin' ;  but  would 
ye  just  let  me  play  a  violin  wi'  the  ethers  when  the 
next  prodigal  comes  home?" 

Robert  walked  home  sorrowful.  Sandy,  the  drink- 
ing, ranting,  swearing  shoemaker,  was  safely  inside 
the  wicket-gate  and  he,  for  all  his  prayers,  was  left 
outside. 

"Play  for  me,  Robert,  the  'Land  o'  the  Leal,'" 
said  the  poor  fellow  on  the  day  when  he  neared  the 
dark  river,  and  on  the  low,  sweet  strains  the  spirit 
went  to  the  great-hearted  Father  of  the  prodigal. 
Robert  knew  not  at  the  time,  but  it  was  one  of  the 
ways  by  which  God  was  coming  into  his  life. 

Dr.  Andersen,  a  physician  of  Aberdeen,  a  distant 
relative  of  Robert's,  visited  the  little  village  in  the 
Scottish  Lowlands.  The  good  man  was  strangely 
attracted  by  the  youth  who  carried  his  soul  in  his 
great,  black  eyes.  And  it  came  about  at  the  last 
that  he  took  Robert  to  the  college  at  Aberdeen. 

And  so  it  was  good-by  to  Mary,  his  friend  and 
teacher,  as  he  set  his  face  eastward,  the  west 
behind  him  tinged  with  love  and  death  and  music, 
and  God  in  the  future  either  a  misty   something, 


ROBERT  FALCONER  167 

hard  to  see,  or  a  terrible  being  hard  to  beHeve  in. 

His  years  at  the  school  passed  all  too  quickly. 
They  were  years  of  intense  labor  which  delighted 
his  teachers  and  his  patron.  During  this  period  he 
came  to  know  the  city  of  Aberdeen  and,  now  and 
then,  to  reach  a  helping  hand  to  some  unfortunate 
lost  in  its  sin.  Among  them,  the  wretched  gypsy 
mother  of  the  boy  he  had  befriended  years  ago. 

"And  who  be  ye?"  said  she. 

"My  name  is  Robert  Falconer,"  he  replied. 

"Not  Andrew  Falconer's  son?"  she  said. 

"Did  you  know  my  father?"  he  asked  eagerly. 

"Ay,  I  knew  him  well  enough;  more  by  token  that 
I  saw  him  last  night." 

Robert  was  beside  himself  with  eagerness,  but 
not  a  word  of  information  could  he  gain. 

"I  saw  him,  I  tell  ye.  I  know  not  where  he  is. 
He  is  in  London  somewhere,  I'll  warrant."  And 
that  was  all. 

And  now  Robert  had  grown  to  be  a  man.  More 
than  six  feet  he  was,  broad  and  grand  and  strong, 
with  great,  deep  black  eyes  and  a  face  you  could 
never  forget.  His  heart  was  big  as  ever,  and  every 
poor,  undone  sinner,  man  or  woman,  found  in  him  a 
friend.  He  had  not  yet  come  into  the  clearness  of 
religious  life,  inasmuch  as  the  life  of  his  soul — music 
and  nature  and  love  and  pity — gave  the  lie  to  the 
God  of  the  theologians.  But  he  read  his  New  Tes- 
tament, and  with  his  mind  full  of  all  sore  unrest  he 
read  of  the  peace  of  God  which  the  great  Christ 
gave  to  men. 


i6S       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

Then  it  slowly  dawned  on  him  that  this  peace  was 
something  that  came  from  doing  the  will  of  the 
Father ;  and  that  if  a  man  should  do  the  will  of  God 
just  as  well  as  he  possibly  could  know  it,  might  he 
not  safely  leave  the  rest  with  Him?  Obedience! 
Obedience!  It  grew  to  be  a  great  w^ord.  What 
more  could  a  body  do?  And,  doing  it,  could  not  a 
body  trust  ? 

Now  and  then  some  great  vision  gleamed  across 
his  soul  of  the  working  of  all  things  toward  a  far-off 
goal  of  love  and  obedience  mingled,  w^hich  God 
knew,  and  which  His  Son  had  justified  through 
sorrow  and  pain.  He,  Robert,  could  pity  and  love 
with  all  his  heart — should  God  do  less?  He  loved, 
and  pitied,  and  prayed;  and  in  proportion  as  the 
theological  God  of  his  childhood  faded,  the  God  of 
his  heart — of  nature,  of  the  still  night,  of  music  and 
love  and  death  and  Jesus — surged  into  his  soul. 

I  cannot  prolong  the  story  of  his  spiritual  life; 
but  it  came  to  rest  solidly  on  this  one  thing,  namely, 
that  the  truth  of  God  must  rise  in  man  as  powers  of 
life.  That  the  way  to  know  God  is  to  try  to  do  His 
will.  The  form  of  this  last  that  appealed  to  Robert 
was  compassion  and  help  for  the  broken-hearted  and 
the  sinning.  Could  his  poor,  human  heart  go  out  in 
pity,  and  God's  heart  be  cold?  His  emancipation 
was  hard  and  slow  and  painful;  it  came  by  growth 
and  not  by  crises,  but,  thank  God,  it  came. 

Robert's  plan  of  life — the  pity  and  the  love  that 
ruled  it — was  very  near  to  the  heart  of  Dr.  Andersen, 
his  patron.     He  loved  Robert  for  it,  even  as  a  son, 


ROBERT  FALCONER  169 

and  upon  his  death  bequeathed  him  his  fortune  to 
be  used  in  helping  the  fallen. 

Robert  removed  to  London,  took  lodgings  in 
John  Street,  and  soon  was  known  for  a  very  angel  of 
God.  He  haunted  the  streets  at  night,  and  made  his 
way  into  the  lowest  forms  of  life  without  intro- 
duction or  protection.  There  was  a  stately  air 
of  the  hills  about  him,  a  nobility  in  his  face  and 
head  and  frame,  a  thoughtfulness  and  humanness  in 
his  eyes — he  seemed  almost  like  God  to  the  broken- 
hearted, and  no  woman  ever  feared  to  trust  him. 

I  cannot  forget  that  night  when  I  saw  him  on  the 
bridge  with  the  poor  creature  he  had  arrested  in  the 
act  of  suicide.  "Please  let  me  go!"  she  said.  "I 
would  rather  go.  They  would  not  be  so  cruel  there 
as  men  are  here!"  looking  into  the  dark  river  below. 

"But  all  men  are  not  cruel,"  he  said;  "I  am  not 
cruel,"  as  he  still  held  her  lightly,  fearing  some 
desperate  act. 

She  drew  herself  back,  and  Falconer,  instantly 
removing  his  hand,  said  to  her.  "Look  in  my  face, 
child,  and  see  whether  you  cannot  trust  me!" 

As  he  uttered  the  words  he  took  off  his  hat  and 
stood,  bareheaded,  in  the  light  of  the  moon.  The 
wind  blew  his  hair  from  his  forehead.  It  was 
nobility  itself;  and  she  was  saved. 

And  all  this  while  he  was  looking  and  searching 
for  his  father.  He  wandered  into  all  sorts  of  places ; 
the  worse  they  looked,  the  more  attractive  he  found 
them,  for  he  might  be  there.  And,  hoping  against 
hope,  he  labored  on. 


I70       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

One  night  the  friends  who  often  aided  him  in  his 
good  work  found  a  man  drunk  with  opium  under 
a  railway  arch,  and  when  Robert  returned  home 
they  told  him.  A  clew  had  been  followed,  and,  they 
hoped,  with  success.  They  went  with  him  to  the 
room  where  lay  a  man  worn  with  dissipation,  uncon- 
scious as  yet,  the  wreck  of  what  he  might  once  have 
been. 

"Are  we  right?"  they  asked. 

"I  do  not  know;  I  think  so,"  was  Robert's  answer. 

There  was  nothing  about  the  man  by  which  he 
could  be  identified.  When,  after  long  hours,  the 
narcotic  sleep  left  him,  he  was  ill,  due  to  his  ex- 
posure, and  for  a  week  Robert  nursed  him.  Begin- 
ning to  amend,  his  diseased  craving  returned.  He 
insisted  that  he  could  and  would  go  his  own  way; 
and  Robert  controlled  him  with  all  the  tenderness 
and  sternness  of  love.  As  yet  he  knew  not  that  he 
was  his  father,  and  no  amount  of  skillful  question- 
ing could  induce  the  man  to  talk  about  his  child- 
hood. As  to  his  name,  he  insisted  that  it  was  John 
Mackinnon. 

Long  years  before,  Robert  had  found  a  sealed 
letter  written  by  his  mother  on  her  dying  bed  to  the 
wayward  husband  she  had  never  ceased  to  love. 
This  letter,  together  with  her  picture,  the  attendant 
was  directed  to  bring  in  to  the  patient,  saying  the 
package  had  been  left  for  him.  Robert  took  his 
seat  in  the  adjoining  room,  and  while  the  man  read 
the  letter  from  heaven — almost  that  it  must  have 
seemed — he  took  his  violin  and  played  softly  the 


ROBERT  FALCONER  171 

airs  of  Scotland,  the  old,  old  songs  of  his  father's 
boyhood  days. 

An  hour  went  by.  Robert  looked  in,  and  the 
man  was  sobbing,  with  his  face  in  his  hands.  If  he 
were  indeed  his  father,  what  other  result  was  possible, 
with  the  letter  from  his  lost  one  in  his  hands  and 
the  music  of  those  days  sounding  sweet  and  low? 
For  the  letter — Robert  read  it  afterwards — in  its 
beautiful  constancy,  its  sweetness,  and  longing  of 
love  was  enough  to  melt  a  heart  of  stone.  It  was  a 
passionate  exhortation  to  give  up  his  sinful  life  and 
to  meet  her  before  High  God,  where  all  is  pure. 

"Oh,  Andrew,"  she  wrote,  "I  couldn't  be  happy  in 
heaven  without  you.  I  am  afraid  I  love  you  too 
much  to  be  fit  to  go  to  heaven.  Then  perhaps  God 
will  send  me  to  the  other  place,  and  all  for  love  of 
you;  and  I  do  believe  I  should  like  that  better.  But 
I  pray  God  we  may  find  each  other  in  heaven." 

Thus  the  letter  breathed  the  deep  love  and  long- 
ing of  the  beautiful,  sainted  dead. 

Robert  felt  quite  sure  now  of  the  man's  identity, 
and  something  within  him  moved  him  to  try  the 
rusted  lock  of  his  father's  heart.  He  went  around 
in  front  of  him,  kneeled  on  the  rug  before  him,  and 
uttered  one  word,  "Father!" 

The  man  started  violently,  raised  his  trembling 
hand  to  his  head,  stared  wildly,  but  did  not  speak. 
Robert  repeated  the  one,  great  word. 

Then  the  man  said  in  a  low,  trembling  voice, 
"Are  you  my  son,  my  boy  Robert,  sir?" 

"I  am!  I  am!     Oh,  father,  I  have  longed  for  you 


172       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

by  day  and  dreamed  about  you  by  night,  and 
searched  for  you  everywhere  for  years  and  years. 
And  now  I  have  found  you." 

And  the  tall  young  man,  in  the  prime  of  life  and 
strength,  laid  his  head  down  on  the  old  man's  knee 
as  if  he  had  been  a  child.  His  father  said  nothing, 
but  laid  his  hand  on  his  head.  There  was  silence, 
and  the  father  was  the  first  to  speak;  and  his  words 
were  the  words  of  the  spirit  that  striveth  with  man. 

"What  am  I  to  do,  Robert  ? " 

No  other  words  could  be  half  so  precious  in  the 
ears  of  his  son,  for  they  indicated  something  like  an 
awakening  of  the  feeble  will. 

"You  must  come  home  to  your  mother,"  he  said. 

' '  I  cannot !    I  dare  not .    She  will  never  forgive  me . " 

"Nay,  nay,  father;  she  loves  you  more  than  her 
own  soul.     She  loves  you  as  much  as  God  loves  you." 

"God  can't  love  me.  Oh,  no!  Oh,  no!"  said  the 
father,  mournfully  and  decisively. 

"God?"  said  Robert.  "He  loves  you  with  an 
everlasting  love.  It  must  be  so — it  is  so! — never 
losing  sight  of  you,  filling  my  heart  with  the  pur- 
pose to  find  you.  And  now  I  have  found  3^ou !  And, 
father,  one  thing  more;  there  is  no  refuge  from  the 
compelling  love  of  God,  You  must  repent  and 
turn  to  Him;  you  must.  There  is  no  other  way. 
And  I  am  not  going  to  leave  you,  and  God  is  not 
going  to  leave  you,  and  surely,  surely,  you  are  com- 
ing back  to  Him." 

I  have  not  the  time  to  tell  how  slov/  and  discour- 
aging was  the  work  of  dealing  with  the  clouded  mind 


ROBERT  FALCONER  173 

and  the  enfeebled  will.  How  the  man  could  not 
be  left  wholly  to  himself  for  a  single  moment,  lest 
he  should  escape  to  gratify  his  old  craving.  How 
he  did  escape  more  than  once,  and  was  found  again. 
How,  with  a  patience  inspired  by  an  unconquerable 
love,  the  son  kept  him  and  nursed  him,  and  braced 
his  nerveless  will.  How  he  grew  into  self-respect 
and  into  penitence  before  God,  and  how  at  last  he 
came  to  the  old  mother  who  waited  for  him. 

"O  Lord!  My  Andrew,  my  Andrew ! "  The  tears 
rained  unheeded,  "I'm  just  as  happy  as  a  little 
child.  Now  I  can  go  hence  in  peace!"  And  when 
she  entered  paradise  it  was  in  the  midst  of  radiant 
weeping. 

The  accomplishment  of  this  great  purpose  of 
Robert's  life  served  for  him  at  least  this  useful 
end — it  completely  swept  away  his  last  doubt  of 
the  love  of  God.  God  the  father  of  us  all ;  God  the 
great  seeker  of  His  wayward  children;  God  the 
master  of  infinite  resources — such  He  increasingly 
seemed  to  be.  And  he  asked  himself  this  question, 
which  brought  its  own  answer:  If  he,  a  poor, 
human  soul,  could  seek,  unresting,  for  the  lost  one 
so  dear  to  him,  when  shall  a  man  dare  to  say  that 
God  has  done  all  He  can  ? 


DONALD  MARCY 

A  T  the  time  our  story  opens  he  was  a  sopho- 
■^^  more  in  the  Harle  University.  We  are  bound 
to  say  of  him,  to  begin  with,  that  he  was  a  royal 
good  fellow.  With  his  lithe  form,  straight  and 
graceful,  his  square  shoulders  and  athletic  bearing, 
his  brown  curls,  merry  blue  eyes,  and  fine,  clear-cut 
face  he  was  a  familiar  figure  wherever  there  was 
college  fun.  The  son  of  Thomas  B.  Marcy  of 
New  York — and  Wall  Street — he  had  never 
known  the  necessity  of  hard  work  or  the  meaning 
of  economy.  His  room,  with  its  heavy  Axminster 
carpet,  Persian  rug,  and  brass  fender  at  the  fire- 
place was  a  beauty,  and  Don  was  at  home  in  it. 
As  for  study — which  is  supposed  to  be  one  of 
the  occupations  of  boys  at  college — we  are 
obliged  to  confess  that  he  did  not  take  to  it  any 
too  kindly. 

"Oh,  pshaw!"  he  exclaimed.  " What 's  the  use  in 
a  fellow  wearing  himself  out  prematurely?" 

He  was  a  lad  of  such  good  breeding  and  good  sense 
and  good  fellowship  that  his  popularity  in  college 
circles  was  a  foregone  conclusion. 

When  he  was  a  freshman  it  was  hard  for  the  upper 
classmen  to  make  out  a  case  against  him  as,  of 
course,  they  wished  to  do.  Finally  a  sophomore 
raised  the  objection  that  he  was  too  well  dressed, 
and  that  he  had  taken  a  professor's  daughter  to 

174 


DONALD   MARCY  175 

drive.  Thereupon  his  case  was  decided,  and  a 
hazing  party  knocked  at  his  door. 

* ' Come  in !  Come  in !  Why,  fellows,  I  'm  honored. 
Have  cigars?  No?  What  will  you  have?  Me? 
Stand  upon  that  table  and  sing  Mother  Goose? 
But  I'm  not  in  voice  to-night.  What?  No,  thank 
you,  I  don't  undress  before  strange  guests.  I  don't 
care  to  go  downstairs  with  you,  either,  and  out  to 
the  pump." 

Gay  and  debonair,  he  smiled  at  them  serenely. 
Then,  "See  here,  fellows!"  suddenly  changing  his 
tone,  "do  you  see  this  crowbar?  It  is  a  new  one. 
I  bought  it  last  week.  Well,  gentlemen,  I  don't 
want  to  be  disturbed  to-night,  and  the  first  man  of 
you  that  enters  this  room  gets  the  crowbar!" 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  fire  in  his  eye.  After 
a  whispered  consultation,  the  party  thought  they 
would  try  another  room. 

But  the  time  came  when  Donald  himself  became 
a  sophomore,  and  it  is  quite  needless  to  say  that  he 
was  responsive  to  the  traditions  of  that  academic 
estate.  And  so,  when  Calhoun,  the  aristocratic, 
black-haired  Southerner,  was  to  be  put  through  the 
mill,  Donald  was  on  hand.  It  was  a  very  dark 
night.  After  they  had  tossed  the  victim  in  a  blanket 
and  ducked  him,  they  took  him  into  the  cemetery 
to  bury  him.  A  grave  was  dug  and  a  coffin  was 
ready.  He  was  placed  in  the  coffin,  called  upon  to 
say  his  prayers,  and  dirges  were  chanted.  Lowered 
into  the  grave — with  the  head  of  the  coffin  left 
open — the  earth  began  to  fall  upon  it,  a  spadeful 


176       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

at  a  time.  The  fellow  was  in  mortal  fear.  All  his 
aristocratic  pride  deserted  him,  and  he  cried  out  in 
his  terror,  begging  for  mercy.  The  party  quietly 
left  him,  with  the  result  that,  overcome  by  fright, 
he  lost  consciousness. 

It  is  the  simple  truth,  however,  that  Donald  had 
no  heart  in  these  extreme  measures.  It  was  carrying 
the  joke  too  far,  and  he  protested,  but  to  no  purpose. 
Trouncey  McGrian,  the  big  bully  among  them,  had 
had  the  sense  to  quit  before  the  burying  business 
began.     Donald  wished  he  had  done  the  same. 

When  they  had  withdrawn  that  their  victim 
might  gain  the  full  benefit  of  the  situation,  Donald, 
in  the  darkness,  slipped  away  and  hurried  back. 
Arrived  at  the  grave,  "Calhoun!"  he  called.  There 
was  no  answer.  Thoroughly  alarmed,  with  infinite 
pains  he  got  the  fellow  out,  and  after  a  time  began 
to  note  signs  of  returning  consciousness.  Then  he 
heard  a  party  approaching.  He  heard  them  talk- 
ing. He  was  certain  they  were  not  the  boys. 
Needless  to  say,  he  saved  himself,  but  by  a  narrow 
margin. 

When  Calhoun  nearly  died  of  brain  fever  there 
was  commotion  and  investigation.  One  evening 
Trouncey  McGrian  came  into  Donald's  room. 

"The  game's  up,  Don!     They've  expelled  me." 

' '  Expelled  you !  What  f or  ? "  said  Donald  sharply, 
wheeling  around. 

"Oh,  the  graveyard  business." 

"But  you  weren't  in  that  at  all." 

"That's  what  I  told  'em.     Prexy  said  it  would 


DONALD   MARCY  177 

be  better  for  me  to  own  up.  I  said  I  'd  be  blanked 
first,  for  I  was  n't  there!    But  it  was  no  good." 

' '  Did  they  say  anything  about  me  ? "  asked  Donald. 

"No.    Didn't  seem  to  spot  you  at  all." 

"You  just  wait  here  a  few  minutes,  will  you?" 
said  Don.     "I  have  something  to  attend  to." 

"Sir,"  said  Donald  Marcy  to  the  president  when 
at  last  he  stood  before  him,  "it  is  only  just  a  word, 
because  I  want  to  see  justice  done.  I  only  want  to 
say  that  Trouncey  McGrian  was  n't  in  that  scrape. 
I  know  he  was  n't  there  because,  you  see,  I  was  there 
myself." 

Well,  that  settled  it. 

"It's  all  right,  Trouncey,"  said  Donald  when  he 
returned.    "You  won't  have  to  go." 

"What  in  thunder!  Seen  the  president ?  Donald, 
you  beat  the  Dutch!    Well,  what  did  he  say?" 

' '  He  said  the  faculty  would  consider  my  case  in  a 
few  days,"  said  Donald. 

When  the  verdict  came,  it  was  this:  suspended 
and  rusticated  for  two  months ! 

"Donald, "  said  his  father,  for  he  had  come  on  to 
attend  to  the  miserable  business,  "I've  nothing  to 
say.  It's  bad  enough,  but  it  might  be  worse.  So 
you've  got  to  go  into  rustication.  I  know  of  just 
the  place  for  you.  My  old  classmate.  Dr.  Fleet, 
lives  at  Tipton,  Vermont.  I  '11  get  him  to  take  you 
in,  and  tutor  you.  Vermont  is  a  deuced  hole,  of 
course,  but  they  '11  send  you  to  some  such  place  any- 
way.    I  '11  arrange  it  with  the  president. " 

Donald  had  heard  of  the  family.    In  fact,  a  son, 


I7S       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

Jam^s,  was  in  the  college  at  the  time.  He  knew 
them  to  be  people  of  character,  but  also  of  limited 
means.  And  when  he  arrived  there  one  day  in 
early  winter,  the  world  did  look  desolate  and  the 
future  dreary.  Nothing  ever  happened  in  Tipton. 
The  little  parsonage  was  rather  bare,  rather  poorly 
furnished,  rather  cold. 

"The — Dickens!"  cried  the  boy,  as  he  took  a 
dive  under  the  bedclothes.  In  the  morning  the  frost 
was  thick  on  the  windowpanes,  the  straw  matting 
on  the  floor  seemed  like  a  glazed  sheet  of  ice,  and  the 
water  in  his  pitcher  was  frozen.  He  kindled  a  fire 
in  the  little  stove  and  warmed  himself,  one  side  at  a 
time,  while  dressing. 

Dr.  Fleet  was  a  man  of  high  character  and  scholar- 
ship, that  was  evident  enough.  Daily  lessons  were 
a  part  of  the  program — for  Donald  must  keep  up 
with  his  classes — and  the  doctor  proved  himself  to 
be  a  fascinating  teacher.  Don  really  thought  that 
he  might  come,  in  time,  to  find  study  interesting. 
To  the  end  of  his  life  he  remembered  the  old  parson- 
age study  and  the  refined,  strong,  classic  face  of  his 
teacher,  aglow  with  enthusiasm  as  he  talked  to  the 
careless  lad  of  scholars  and  of  scholarly  thoughts 
and  deeds  and  dreams.  And  there  stole  into  the 
boy's  soul  the  beginnings  of  a  passion  he  did  not 
at  first  recognize — that  of  aspiration  in  its  nobler 
forms. 

Mrs.  Fleet  was  a  cultured,  quiet  woman,  and 
just  as  sweet  as  a  woman  could  be.  She  realized 
what  a  change  their  mode  of  life  must  be  for  the 


DONALD   MARCY  179 

son  of  Thomas  Marcy,  and  she  mothered  him  from 
the  first.  Donald  wondered  at  her,  and  he  came  to 
love  her ;  as  who  would  not  ? 

But  for  all  this  the  days  passed  rather  tamely 
for  the  city-bred  youth.  And  so  it  was  with  a  new 
interest  in  life  that  he  looked  forward  to  the  coming 
home  for  the  holidays  of  the  daughter  of  the  house, 
Miss  Fay,  now  in  Smith  College.  He  imagined  her 
to  be  a  kind  of  bluestocking,  and  that  she  probably 
wore  spectacles.  It  occurred  to  him  to  cram  a 
little  on  Xenophon  that  morning;  he  believed  the 
Smith  girls  were  very  learned.  She  would  probably 
call  him  out  on  his  Greek  at  once,  and  floor  him,  too ! 

When  he  went  to  the  post  office  for  the  mail  there 
was  a  postal  from  Fay  saying  that  she  was  coming 
on  the  morning  express  instead  of  the  afternoon 
train  as  she  had  planned. 

' '  Great  Scott !  It  must  be  due  now !  The  station  is 
three  miles  away,  and  there's  nobody  to  meet  her!" 

In  a  twinkling  he  ran  to  the  stable  and  ordered 
out  the  only  hack  in  town,  an  ancient  vehicle  on 
runners,  for  the  snow  was  a  foot  deep,  and  drifted, 
and  somebody  must  do  something!  And  so  it  was 
that  he  met  her,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  sta- 
tion, bravely  trudging  through  the  snow.  Donald 
leaped  down  and  stood  before  her,  cap  in  hand,  his 
brown  curls  blowing  madly  in  the  winter  wind. 

"Excuse  me.  Miss  Fleet,"  he  began,  with  his 
best  bow,  "but  I—" 

The  girl — tall,  shapely,  vigorous — had  been  walk- 
ing with  her  head  bowed,  the  better  to  pick  her  way. 
12 


i8o       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

But  when  the  old  hack  stopped  and  the  young 
stranger  suddenly  jumped  before  her,  she  lifted  her 
face  and  looked  straight  at  him  with  a  perfectly 
unconscious,  pretty  look  of  girlish  amazement,  at 
once  so  modest  and  so  straightforward  that  it  was 
bewitching. 

"I  don't  know  who  you  are,"  said  she  sedately, 
but  her  eyes  twinkled.  "Are  you  anybody  in  par- 
ticular?" 

"I'm  a  rusticated  college  boy  from  Harle,  just 
now  your  father's  guest.  My  name  is  Marcy,  at 
your  service.     I  came  to  drive  you  home." 

"Oh,  how  nice  of  you!"  she  cried  delightedly.  "I 
am  pretty  wet." 

Once  within  the  hack,  Donald  hurriedly  explained 
the  circumstances. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said  at  last,  "I  wondered 
what  you  w^ould  be  like,  and  I  imagined  you  would 
begin  to  talk  about  the  Anabasis  directly." 

"And  I  never  thought  about  you  at  all,"  said 
Fay  saucily. 

"I'm  awfully  glad  you've  come,  though,"  he 
replied,  "and  with  your  permission  I'll  make  you 
think  about  me  now  you  have  got  here." 

Life  at  the  parsonage  that  day  turned  over  a 
fairy  leaf.  Fay  had  come!  Her  father  stayed  out 
of  his  study  for  two  hours  after  dinner,  laughing  at 
college  stories.  "Your  girls'  stories,"  he  said,  "with 
the  fun  and  without  the  devil!" 

As  for  Donald,  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth 
opened  at  once  for  him. 


DONALD   MARCY  i8i 

"What  is  your  class  in  college?"  he  asked  her. 

"Oh,  I'm  only  a  junior,"  she  replied,  "I  should 
be  a  senior,  but  I  had  to  stay  out  a  year." 

"Dropped?"  asked  Don. 

"Do  I  look  it?"  Turning  sharply  around  and 
facing  the  mischief  in  his  eyes,  she  stood  straight 
and  still  before  him,  a  fine  figure  and  a  winsome  face, 
melting  with  innocent  coquetry  while  you  looked  at 
her  and  withdrawing  into  delicate  dignity  before 
you  could  speak  to  her.  A  girl  made  up  of  mischief 
and  good  sense  —  that  was  Fay. 

"You  look,"  said  Don,  with  a  low  bow,  "as  if 
the  faculty  of  Smith  might  have  had  their  hands 
full  with  you" — Fay's  delicate  eyebrows  arched 
disdainfully— "but  didn't,"  he  finished.  "I'm 
afraid  you've  been  the  other  kind  of  girl.  I'm 
afraid  you've  learned  your  lessons,  and  stood  well, 
and  all  that." 

"And  why,  Mr.  Don,  do  you  suffer  from  fear  on 
this  account?" 

' ' Because, ' '  said  Donald,  ' ' I  have  n't.  I 'm  not  a 
scholar  at  all." 

"Dear  me!"  said  Fay,  lifting  her  black  eyebrows 
as  innocent  as  a  lamb.     "Are  you  stupid?" 

Don  flushed.  He  certainly  did.  When  had  a 
girl's  tongue  ever  made  Donald  Marcy  blush  before? 

"I'm  sorry  for  you,"  pursued  Fay  blandly.  "It 
must  be  annoying  not  to  be  able  to  learn  things 
like  other  people." 

"I  don't  know  that  I'm  a  born  fool!"  exploded 
Don  viciously. 


iS2       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

"Then  why  in  the  world  don't  you  learn  your 
lessons?    Why  do  you  act  as  if  you  were  a — " 

"A  what?" 

"Why,  that  word  you  said  just  now.  Don't  com- 
pel me  to  use  it.  But  have  I  been  impolite?  I 
didn't  mean  to  be.  Shall  I  beg  your  pardon?"  she 
concluded  in  a  gentle  and  repentant  way. 

Donald  thought  her  adorable,  and  he  thought  he 
would  tell  her  so,  but  something  in  her  fine,  far  eyes 
checked  him. 

"No,"  he  said  humbly,  "don't  beg  my  pardon. 
I  deserved  it.  I  'm  a  harum-scarum  chap.  But  I  'm 
not  a  bad  fellow,  Miss  Fay." 

"Oh,  I  know  that,"  she  said  eagerly.  "Let  me 
tell  you  why  I  was  out  for  a  year,"  tactfully  changing 
the  subject.  "I'm  not  ashamed  of  it.  They  have  a 
hard  time  here  at  home,  and  there  are  two  of  us  in 
college,  so  I  stayed  out  to  earn  some  money." 

"What  did  you  do  to  earn  money?"  asked  Donald 
with  unwonted  seriousness.  "/  never  earned  more 
than  fifty  dollars  in  my  life.  Father  gave  me  that 
once  for  knocking  off  cigarettes." 

"Oh,  I  taught  music,"  said  Fay  carelessly.  "I'm 
not  a  good  musician,  but  I'm  accurate,  and  I  can 
get  classes.  I  don't  mind  hard  work;  indeed,  I 
think  I  like  it.     Don't  you?" 

"I  begin  to  think  I  might  be  made  to,"  replied 
Donald  forlornly,  "if  I  should  take  a  few  quarters' 
lessons  in  'How  to  Do  It'  from  a  girl  like  you." 

Fay  looked  at  him  very  soberly  and  charmingly. 
He  wondered  what  her  sweet,  womanly  thoughts  of 


DONALD   MARCY  183 

him  were,  and  what  she  would  say.  But  she  said 
nothing  at  all. 

She  never  preached  to  him  from  first  to  last.  She 
did  something  for  him  infinitely  better;  she  flashed 
over  the  panorama  of  his  young  life  the  ideal  of  a 
strong,  sweet  girl,  intellectual,  womanly,  tender, 
and  true — and,  best  of  all,  not  in  the  least  afraid  of 
life  or  afraid  of  work. 

He  reached  the  point  in  his  confidences  one  day 
when  he  said  to  her,  "Miss  Fay,  I  wish  sometimes  I 
could  be  a  different  kind  of  fellow;  the  kind  that  is 
bound  to  amount  to  something;  the  kind — well, 
your  kind,"  he  explained,  turning  to  look  straight 
at  her. 

"Do  you,  really?    Well,  then,  be  the  other  kind." 

"Miss  Fay,  will  you  be  my  friend,  true  blue,  if  I 
try  it  for  all  I  am  worth? " 

"I  do  not  know.  I  never  promised  that  before 
to  any — to  any  young  man,  you  know." 

"But  you'll  promise  it  to  me!"  pleaded  handsome 
Donald.  "I  never  asked  it  before,  either.  I  dare 
say  I  've  done  my  share  of  flirting,  and  all  that,  but 
I  never  wanted  a  girl  to  be  my  friend  before." 

"It's  a  solemn  sort  of  a  word,"  said  Fay  in  a  low 
voice. 

"That's  so,"  said  Donald.  "I'll  tell  you,"  he 
continued  with  a  very  original  air,  as  if  he  were  the 
first  boy  that  had  ever  talked  friendship  with  a 
girl  in  all  the  history  of  the  old,  dear,  foolish  world, 
"I  want  to  be  the  other  kind  of  fellow  and  I  want 
you  to  stand  with  me,  to  help  me,  to  make  me  think 


iS4       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

of  different  things.  It  will  be  so  much  easier  if 
you  only  will." 

"You  won't  let  me  be  ashamed  of  you,"  suggested 
Fay  gently,  "if  I  do  this?" 

"There's  my  hand  on  it!"  said  Donald. 

Their  hands  clasped,  they  looked  into  each  other's 
eyes  a  moment,  and  straightway  began  to  talk  of 
other  things. 

When  Donald  returned  to  college  from  Vermont 
and  took  to  his  books  in  good  earnest,  doubled  his 
electives,  wTote  one  or  two  themes  that  won  the  ap- 
proval of  the  professors,  and  brushed  up  his  naturally 
fine  elocution — well,  the  fellows  rubbed  their  eyes. 
What  had  come  over  Marcy?  It  was  thought  to 
be  a  pity  that  the  handsome,  graceful  fellow,  the 
life  of  the  college  fun,  should  give  his  mind  seriously 
to  the  trifles  of  the  recitation  room. 

A  certain  Smith  girl,  with  the  scholar  in  her  brows 
and  the  woman  in  her  eyes,  had  faithfully  kept  her 
promise  of  friendship.  Through  her  brother  in  the 
college  she  kept  herself  informed  of  Don's  work, 
and  was  secretly  proud  of  him.  Don  knew  of  her 
interest,  and  had  set  up  in  his  own  heart  some  of 
her  ideals.  And  her  power  over  him,  increased 
tenfold  by  her  sweet  unconsciousness  of  it,  was  the 
dynamic  of  his  life. 

In  the  spring  vacation  she  stopped  over  a  day  at 
Harle  to  visit  her  brother. 

"Mr.  Don,"  she  said  in  the  most  innocent  way, 
"there's  a  question  in  my  mind.  Why  don't  you 
enter  for  the  DeCourtney  prize?" 


DONALD   MARCY  185 

"The  DeCourtney!"  gasped  Don.  "Why,  no- 
body but  the  brilHant  fellows  go  in  for  that !  Why, 
why,  I  couldn't,  you  know." 

"And  pray,  why  not?"  demanded  Fay. 

He  argued  the  question  further,  but  finally  ex- 
claimed, "Why,  if  you  say  so,  Miss  Fay.  But  then, 
there's  no  chance  to  win,  you  know." 

"Mr.  Don,"  said  Fay  with  a  strange  light  in  her 
eyes,  "I  don't  know  any  such  thing!" 

The  prize  was  for  the  best  oration.  There  was 
but  one  competitor  whom  Donald  really  feared. 
Tom  Hallowell  was  four  years  older  than  himself, 
and  a  more  practiced  writer.  Donald,  on  the 
other  hand,  excelled  in  elocution.  He  chose  as 
his  subject,  "The  Influence  of  the  Imagination 
upon  Science,"  one  of  those  extraordinary  themes 
which  college  boys  illuminate  with  so  much  wis- 
dom. Donald  wrote  all  he  knew  about  it  and  a  good 
deal  more.  In  fact,  he  stood  very  much  in  awe 
of  that  oration. 

The  June  day,  the  great  day  of  the  competition, 
dawned  gloriously.  The  college  town  was  thronged 
with  strangers.  The  day  wore  on  to  the  afternoon. 
The  house  began  to  fill.  An  hour  before  two  o'clock 
not  a  seat  was  to  be  had. 

Fay  graduated  from  Smith  the  day  before.  She 
was  to  come  down  with  her  father  for  the  occasion; 
but  the  train  was  late.  Don  watched  and  waited 
in  a  perfect  fever.  Where  were  they?  Six  minutes 
of  two!     Ah,  there,  there  they  come! 

The  carriage  drove  up  from  the  station.     A  pretty 


iS6       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

figure  in  a  summer  traveling  dress  alighted,  and 
impulsively  held  out  both  hands  to  Donald. 

"I  thought  you'd  never  come!"  cried  Don.  "I 
will  win,  now  yoitrWe  here!" 

"Of  course  you'll  win,  anyhow,"  said  Fay,  blush- 
ing delightfully. 

They  talked  in  hurried  snatches. 

"You  are  not  scared,  are  you?"  she  flung  at  him. 

"Not  a  bit.     I  was — a  little.     I'm  not  now." 

"Success  to  you,  Mr.  Don!"  And  the  strange 
light  in  her  eyes  sent  a  thrill  through  him  as  her 
brother  hurried  her  away  to  the  seat  reserved  for 
her  beside  her  father. 

Several  competitors  were  to  speak.  Tom  Hallo- 
well  was  to  come  last,  with  Donald  just  preceding 
him.  The  minutes  passed;  the  wait  seemed  almost 
interminable.  Then  came  the  momentous  an- 
nouncement, "Donald  C.  Marcy,  New  York  City; 
The  Influence  of  -^  " 

But  Don  heard  no  more.  In  a  moment  he  was 
upon  the  stage,  facing  a  thousand  people.  For  two 
or  three  awful  minutes  he  knew  what  stage  fright 
meant;  after  that  he  was  all  right.  While  he  spoke 
he  saw  everything.  There  sat  the  president  near 
the  front,  and  he  knew  by  the  hitch  in  Prexy's  left 
eyebrow  that  he  was  doing  fairly  well  so  far.  He 
saw  the  professor's  daughter  whom  he  used  to  take 
for  a  drive ;  he  thought  she  looked  rather  older  to-day. 
There  was  Trouncey  McGrian.  He  was  listening 
with  his  soul  in  his  eyes,  hoping  with  all  his  might 
that  Don  would  "get  there."     Dr.  Fleet,  too,  his 


DONALD   MARCY  187 

fine,  scholarly  face  illuminated  with  critical  pleasure ; 
and  there,  seated  next  him — 

After  his  eye  had  first  dared  meet  hers,  it  seemed 
to  Donald  that  he  knew  nothing,  felt  nothing,  in 
all  this  great,  still  assembly,  but  Fay.  She  simply 
filled  the  place.  She  sat  leaning  forward  a  little, 
her  head  slightly  bent,  her  small  blue  fan,  with  its 
white  lace  edge,  held  poised,  like  a  thought  arrested, 
against  the  curve  of  her  soft  cheek.  Her  eyes 
seemed  to  veil  themselves,  as  if  there  were  something 
more  within  them  than  she  cared  to  reveal  in  public. 
Her  attitude,  her  breathlessness,  her  half-averted 
look  all  seemed  to  say,  "I  believe  in  you!  But  I'm 
not  going  to  tell.  You're  doing  well.  Steady,  sir, 
steady.  Don't  look  at  me  so  hard.  Steady!  You'll 
get  it." 

The  inspiration  that  came  to  him  from  her  was 
finer  than  wine.  Donald  felt  as  if  the  sky  were 
filled  with  rainbows,  and  that  he  lived  upon  hopes 
of  paradise.  But  he  came  to  the  end  all  too  soon, 
made  his  bow,  and  turned  to  go.  A  thunder  of 
applause  recalled  him.  He  turned,  surprised.  He 
had  not  expected  such  an  ovation. 

As  the  courtly,  debonair  fellow  stood  there,  smil- 
ing and  bowing,  flowers  fell  about  him.  The  pro- 
fessor's daughter  threw  him  a  wreath  of  laurel  and 
another  girl — an  old  friend  of  his — stood  upon  a 
seat  and  threw  with  precision  a  blazing  bouquet  of 
red  roses.  Fay  sat  with  downcast  eyes.  Was  she 
proud  of  him  amid  the  storm  of  approval?  She 
made   no   sign,    threw   no   flowers.     Donald   felt   a 


iSS       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

momentary  pang;  when  softly,  almost  unobserved,  a 
tiny  cluster  of  white  violets  fell  at  his  feet,  almost  hid- 
den in  their  own  leaves.  Dr.  Fleet  had  quietly  thrown 
them,  Donald  knew.  He  hid  them  quickly  in  his 
breast  pocket  as  he  bowed  himself  off  the  stage. 

"Good  elocution,"  he  heard  one  of  the  committee 
whisper.     "The  oration  was  well  constructed,  too." 

Tom  Hallowell  followed  with  perfect  self-posses- 
sion. His  grave  self-confidence  compelled  attention. 
His  elocution  was  inferior  to  that  of  his  rival;  three 
sentences  settled  that.  But  the  material  of  his 
oration  was  remarkably  excellent.  His  thought  was 
clear  and  strong,  and  some  periods  were  eloquence 
itself.  When  he  retired  from  the  stage  there  were 
anxious  faces  among  Donald's  friends. 

Fay  did  not  look  anxious;  she  looked  startled. 
Her  cheeks  were  slightly  flushed,  and  her  eyes 
flashed  with  a  singular  look.  She  bent  as  if  to  speak 
to  her  father,  but  finally  said  nothing. 

It  was  a  shock  but  not  wholly  a  surprise  when  the 
committee  reported  that  the  DeCourtney  prize  was 
awarded  to  Thomas  Hallowell.  To  say  that  the 
announcement  was  a  terrible  blow  to  Donald  is  to 
say  nothing  at  all  about  it.  He  tried  to  hold  his 
head  up  and  smile  among  the  fellows,  and  he  con- 
gratulated his  successful  rival  in  manly  fashion. 

Pretty  soon  an  usher  whispered  to  Donald  that 
he  was  wanted  at  the  side  entrance  by  an  elderly 
gentleman  and  a  young  lady.  He  believed  the 
young  lady  did  not  feel  well,  although  she  didn't 
look  like  the  fainting  kind. 


DONALD   MARCY  189 

Dr.  Fleet  was  warm  in  his  greeting. 

* '  Cheer  up,  my  boy,  he  was  older  than  you.  Your 
oration  was  a  piece  of  good,  downright,  conscien- 
tious work.     I  congratulate  you." 

"Thank  you,  sir;  it  doesn't  matter,"  said  Donald, 
trying  to  smile. 

He  turned  to  Fay.  She  seemed  unaccountably 
excited,  and  gave  him  her  hand  in  silence. 

"Don't  speak  to  me!"  she  said  under  her  breath 
as  they  turned  to  walk  down  the  street.  "I  have 
something  on  my  mind.     I  can't  talk  yet." 

"Are  you  ashamed  of  me?"  pleaded  poor  Don. 
humbly. 

"I  am  proud  of  you!  "  exploded  Fay. 

"Oh,  then,  I  don't  care!"  cried  Donald.  "What's 
the  DeCourtney  if  I  haven't  disappointed  you?'' 

"James,"  said  Fay  to  her  brother,  who  was  walk- 
ing with  them,  "is  it  too  late  to  get  into  the  college 
library?" 

' '  Why,  no,  I  think  not ;  but  why  in  the  world —  I 
confess  I  'm  tired  out.  Here,  Donald,  will  you  take 
my  sister  over  there?  I  suppose  she  has  a  right  to 
be  so  all-fired  literary  if  she  wants  to.  She  got  her 
diploma  yesterday,  you  know." 

"Ask  the  librarian,  please,  to  get  me  Rufus 
Choate's  addresses,"  said  Fay.  She  plunged  into 
the  volume. 

' '  There,  there !    I  thought  so  I " 

xier  face  crimsoned  suddenly  from  brow  to  chin. 
She  read  a  page  to  herself,  skipped,  read  another, 
shut  the  book,  with  her  finger  to  keep  the  place,  and 


iQo       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

l(X)kcd  with  blazing  eyes  at  Donald.  He  had  been 
waiting  her  pleasure,  consumed  with  curiosity. 

"It  is  just  as  I  thought!"  she  cried.  "Only  I 
wanted  to  make  sure  of  it.  I  didn't  dare  say  so, 
seeing  father  did  n't  find  it  out.  I  didn't  know  but 
I  might  be  mistaken,  since  he  didn't  get  up  there 
and  shake  that  fellow  by  the  coat  collar,  and  tumble 
him  off  the  stage." 

"What  in  the  name  of  —  Rufus  Choate  —  do 
you  mean?"  cried  the  astonished  Donald. 

"I  mean,"  said  Fay  more  quietly,  "that  Tom 
Hallowell  has  no  more  right  to  that  DeCourtney 
prize  than — than — I  have." 

"Perhaps  I'm  rather  stupid,  but  I  don't  under- 
stand you  at  all,"  said  Don. 

"The  fact  is  this,"  she  cried.  "That  fellow  has 
copied  a  great  part  of  one  of  Choate 's  orations. 
Mr.  Don,  the  DeCourtney  prize  is  yours!" 

"Let  me  see,"  he  whispered.  He  was  trembling, 
and  all  the  color  had  left  his  face. 

Fay  opened  the  volume,  and  together  they  looked 
it  over.  There  it  was,  passage  after  passage  just 
as  they  had  heard  it  that  afternoon. 

"The  idea,"  said  Fay,  "of  supposing  that  a  fellow 
with  that  kind  of  a  mustache — waxed  on  the  ends 
—  could  write  like  that !  I  hope,"  she  added,  looking 
perfectly  magnificent,  "that  he  hasn't  got  a  sister 
or  a — a  real  nice  girl  friend  to  be  mortified  dead 
ashamed  of  him,  the  scoundrel." 

"Why,  this  is  dreadful,"  said  Donald.  He  was 
thinking  more  of  his  rival's  disgrace  than  of  his  own 


DONALD   MARCY  191 

triumph.  "How — in — the  world — did  you  ever 
find  it  out? "  he  asked  in  an  awed  voice.  He  felt  at 
that  moment  that  Fay's  learning  was  positively 
appalling.  Think  of  it!  A  girl  who  knew  more 
than  the  faculty  of  the  college  and  the  DeCourtney 
committee ! 

"Oh,  that's  nothing,"  said  Fay  carelessly.  "I 
had  a  thesis  on  Rufus  Choate,  and  I  got  crammed, 
you  know." 

Then — what  next?  The  same  thought  was  in 
both  their  minds — exposure!  As  they  were  walk- 
ing back,  all  at  once  Don  stopped  short. 

"I  don't  want  to  do  it!"  he  cried.  "I  just  can't 
doit!" 

She  knew  his  meaning. 

"I  think  you  ought  to  do  it,  for  the  honor  of  the 
college." 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  "and  dishonor  myself!  I  tell 
you,  Miss  Fay,  nobody  but  a  cad  would  stoop  so  low 
to  get  a  prize." 

Fay  was  distressed  as  they  argued  the  question. 

"Well,  what  will  you  do?" 

"I'll  tell  you,"  said  Donald  at  length.  "I'll  go 
straight  to  Hallowell  himself.  It's  the  only  square 
thing  to  do." 

By  an  odd  chance  he  found  Hallowell  alone. 
Donald  found  it  hard  to  introduce  the  subject.  At 
length  he  said:  "I've  got  something  to  say,  Hallo- 
well, and  I  don't  quite  know  how.  Anyway,  I  may 
as  well  tell  you  that  I  know  all  about  it,  and  the 
game  is  up!" 


19.'        FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

It  was  difficult  to  say  which  of  the  boys  was  the 
paler  at  that  moment. 

"I  don't  understand  you!" 

"Oh,  come,  don't  be  a  fool.  I  tell  you  I  know 
everything." 

"What  do  you  know,  please?  Be  kind  enough  to 
explain." 

' '  I  know  that  it  was  not  Tom  Hallowell  who  won 
the  DeCourtney  to-day,"  said  Don  in  a  low  voice. 

' '  And  who,  then  ?     Donald  Marcy  ? ' ' 

"It  was  Rufus  Choate,  sir." 

It  was  astounding  to  see  how  the  fellow  tried  to 
brazen  it  out.  He  seemed  to  think  it  might  be  Don's 
clever  guess,  after  all. 

"Well,"  he  said,  but  his  voice  trembled,  "your 
proofs." 

"I  read  Rufus  Choate's  address  at  five  this  after- 
noon in  the  college  library." 

"How  did  you  find  it  out?  Somebody  told  you. 
You  are  not  familiar  with  such  books." 

"Yes,  somebody  told  me." 

"Who  told  you?  How  many  know  about  it? 
All  over  college,  is  it?" 

"I  assure  you,  Hallowell,  I  have  not  told  a  soul, 
but  I  came  straight  to  you.  And  the — the  person 
who  told  me  will  not  tell." 

"Marcy!"  exclaimed  the  other,  looking  keenly  at 
him,  "I  know!  It's  a  woman!"  and  he  brought  his 
fist  down  heavily  on  the  table.  "If  it's  a  woman, 
he'll  tell." 

"^here  was  a  long  silence. 


DONALD  MARCY  193 

"Marcy,  it's  all  up  with  me.  I'm  disgraced. 
I'm  ruined  for  life." 

The  proud,  handsome  fellow  groaned,  and  hid  his 
face.  He  was  the  picture  of  misery.  The  sight  of 
him  went  to  Donald's  heart. 

"Hallowell,"  he  said,  "I  won't  tell,  and  she  will 
not  if  I  ask  her  not  to.  So  cheer  up!  You've  had 
your  lesson,  and  I  know  you  wouldn't  do  such  a 
thing  again." 

"Do  you  really  mean,  Marcy,  that  you  would 
give  up  the  DeCourtney  just  to  save  a  fellow  from 
disgrace?  Why,  man,  it's  yours,  you  know,  if  you 
claim  it." 

"Hallowell,  I  want  it  very  much,  but  I've  made 
up  my  mind  that  I  don't  want  it  at  the  expense 
of  telling  on  a  classmate.  So  that's  settled,  once 
for  all." 

"Marcy,  you're  a  good  fellow.  I  don't  deserve 
it.  Before  God,  if  I  ever  get  well  out  of  this  I'll 
never  be  caught  in  such  a  scrape  again." 

"Well,  I  guess  there's  nothing  more  to  say,"  said 
Don  slowly.     ' '  I  think  I  '11  be  going. ' ' 

When  he  returned  to  Fay  he  found  a  state  of  high 
excitement.  Her  brother  was  mad  as  a  March  hare. 
Dr.  Fleet,  pale  and  stern,  was  seated,  writing  a  note. 
Fay  came  to  Donald  instantly, 

' '  Donald,  I  had  to  tell  my  father.  I  have  n't  told 
another  soul.  But  I  knew  you'd  let  me  tell  him. 
Are  you  angry  with  me?" 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  Don.  How  could  he  be  angry 
with  Fay?     He  stood  quite  still,  looking  upon  them 


IQ4        FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

all,  his  face  ennobled  by  a  high  and  beautiful  ex- 
pression. Tve  seen  Hallowell,"  he  said  quietly, 
"and  told  him  I  wouldn't  tell." 

"Now  look  here,  Don,"  said  James,  "you  just 
leave  it  with  father.  He  is  older  and  wiser,  and  will 
know  what  to  do.     He  will  see  the  president — " 

"No,  sir,''  said  Donald,  "that  will  never  do. 
This  is  my  afTair." 

"No,  no,  Donald!  No,  no!  It  is  not  your  affair," 
exclaimed  Dr.  Fleet,  suddenly  rising  with  a  force 
that  upset  his  chair.  "It  is  the  aflair  of  the  college 
and  the  alumni.  See  here,  sir,"  Dr.  Fleet  drew  his 
form  to  its  full  height,  and  his  scholarly  face  was 
aglow,  "I  am  an  alumnus  of  this  college,  sir.  And 
what  is  more,  I  won  the  DeCourtney  myself  thirty 
years  ago.  Do  you  suppose  I  am  going  to  stand  by 
and  see  it  dishonored,  to  say  nothing  of  the  college? 
No,  sir!" 

As  Dr.  Fleet  walked  rapidly  toward  the  president's 
house,  turning  a  street  corner  he  came  suddenly 
upon  the  president  himself. 

"I  was  on  my  way  to  tell  you — "exclaimed 
Dr.  Fleet. 

"I  know  it,"  interrupted  the  president,  "and  I 
was  just  coming  to  tell  you." 

"How  in  the  world  —  how  did  you  hear  about  it?" 

"Hallowell  has  confessed.  He  came  to  my  house 
an  hour  ago,  confessed  the  whole  business,  and  is 
on  his  way  home  by  the  night  express.  I  have 
made  it  known,"  continued  the  president.  "It  will 
be  all  over  the  university  in  half  an  hour.     I  believe 


DONALD  MARCY  195 

I  '11  go  with  you  and  congratulate  Marcy.  I  shouldn't 
object  to  arriving  there  before  the  committee." 

"There,  Miss  Fay,  there's  your  father  coming," 
said  Donald,  looking  out  of  the  window.  "And,  I 
declare,  Prexy  is  with  him!" 

Three  minutes  later  her  father  was  presenting 
the  president, 

"So  this  is  the  young  lady  who  has  detected  the 
college  in  a  literary  blunder,"  smiled  the  presi- 
dent, with  a  very  low  bow.  "I  am  honored,  Miss 
Fleet.  And  you,  sir,"  turning  to  Donald,  "I  came 
to  congratulate  you  on  winning  the  DeCourtney 
prize.  You  did  yourself  credit,  sir,  to-day.  You  did 
good  work,  and  you  deserve  it." 

"Thank  you  very  much,  sir,"  said  Donald  mod- 
estly, "but  I  wasn't  going  to  tell." 

"You  didn't  tell.  A  Higher  Power  looks  after 
such  things,  and  has  saved  the  honor  of  the  college. 
I  think,"  added  the  president,  with  one  keen  eye  on 
the  street,  "that  I  see  the  committee  coming.  I 
don't  know  that  I  envy  them,"  he  murmured, 
smiling. 

That  committee — well,  they  made  the  best  of  a 
bad  business.  When  they  had  explained  their 
errand,  which  they  did  as  if  they  were  in  a  hurry  to 
get  through,  the  chairman  made  the  official  announce- 
ment to  Donald. 

"Owing  to  the  fact  that  your  competitor,  by  the 

dishonest   use   of   material — a   piece   of   deception 

which  was  not  detected  by  the  committee  of  award 

nor  by  the  college  authorities" — he  glanced  grimly 

13 


196       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

at  the  president — "owing  to  the  fact,  I  say,  that 
your  competitor  is  debarred,  to  you,  Mr.  Marcy,  is 
hereby  awarded  the  DeCourtney  prize." 

As  Donald  received  the  medal  and  the  one  hun- 
dred dollar  gold  piece  he  heard  Fay  suffocating  with 
stifled  merriment  behind  him. 

"The  young  lady  seems  amused,"  growled  the 
chairman,  growing  red  in  the  face. 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon!"  she  cried  in  the  midst 
of  her  mirth.  "But  I  just  can't  help  it!  I  can't 
help  laughing!     It's  so — so — so  funny!" 

This  was  the  one  thing  needed  to  relieve  the 
tension  of  the  situation.  The  president  joined  her, 
laughing  right  heartily. 

"We're  all  in  the  same  box,  gentlemen,"  he  said. 
"This  young  lady  has  the  laugh  on  us,  and  I  think 
she  is  entitled  to  whatever  fun  she  can  get  out  of 
the  situation,"  which  they  were  forced  to  agree  was 
a  very  sensible  view. 

When  the  truth  became  known,  the  college  boys 
came  for  Donald,  a  great  crowd  of  them.  It  was  a 
serenade  to  be  long  remembered.  They  sang  the 
DeCourtney  song,  as  only  college  boys  can  sing. 
And  then,  slowly  and  sweetly,  to  the  classic  air  of 
"Nelly  was  a  Lady,"  they  recounted  the  memorable 
fact  that  it  was  a  lady  who  read  Rufus  and  took  the 
trick,  to  the  undying  honor  of  the  college. 

They  were  all  there,  Donald's  loyal  friends, 
Trouncey  McGrian  of  course  among  them,  his  big, 
honest  soul  as  full  as  it  could  hold.  There  were 
members  of  the  distinguished  Senior  Literary  Society 


DONALD  MARCY  197 

to  which  Donald  himself  aspired,  and  some  of  the 
professors  too !  There  they  all  were,  a  great  tumul- 
tuous crowd  massed  on  the  green  before  Donald's 
windows.  And  when  they  had  serenaded  to  their 
heart's  content,  of  course  there  were  calls  for  Donald. 

Out  he  came,  and  there  he  stood  before  them  in 
all  his  manly  grace,  tossing  back  his  curls  with  his 
fine,  strong  hand.  His  eyes  flashed  out  over  the 
boys.  Who  would  have  thought  that  a  fellow  had 
so  many  friends!  Behind  him,  forming  a  back- 
ground, stood  Dr.  Fleet,  the  committee  of  award, 
and  the  president  of  the  college.  It  was  the  proudest 
moment  of  Donald  Marcy's  young  life.  He  stood 
very  modestly,  something  misty  gathering  in  his 
bright  eyes.  Why  was  it,  pray,  that  he  felt  so 
deeply  touched  by  this  demonstration?  He  took  a 
step  forward. 

"Boys,  I  can't  make  a  speech,  but  I  do  want  to 
thank  you  for  your  good  wishes.  Of  course  it  is 
this  peculiar  situation  that  has  brought  you  here 
to-night.  We  all  love  fair  play,  and  the  manly 
spirit,  and  the  honor  of  the  college,  and  we  are  all 
glad  to  say  so.  With  all  my  heart  I  thank  you, 
fellows,  one  and  all.  And  now,  three  cheers  for  the 
college!  "   And  they  cheered  till  the  night  rang  again. 

"Mr.  Don,"  said  Fay  in  a  whisper  just  behind 
him,  "you  ought  to  be  perfectly  happy." 

Donald  had  turned  his  handsome  head  to  look  at 
her,  when  suddenly  a  new  cry  arose.  They  all  knew 
the  story  of  the  Smith  College  girl  and  the  hand  she 
had  taken  in  the  affair.    They  knew  as  well  as  they 


iqs     figures  famed  in  fiction 

cared  to  know  that  she  was  in  that  room,  very  much 
protected  by  her  father  and  her  brother  and  the 
president  and  the  committee,  and  they  did  not 
propose  to  let  her  ofif  altogether.  Vigorously  the 
cry  arose: 

"The  young  lady!  The  young  lady!  Three 
cheers  for  the  girl  graduate!  Three  cheers  for  the 
girl  who  cleaned  out  the  committee!  Three  cheers 
for  Smith  College!" 

Fay  blushed  divinely  and  shrank  quite  out  of 
sight  behind  her  brother,  who  held  her  proudly. 
Donald,  who  could  not  touch  her,  looked  at  her 
through  a  mist  in  his  young  eyes,  blind  with  love 
and  delight  and  adoration. 

"I  think,"  said  her  brother,  "you  might  as  well 
let  them  see  you.  The  fellows  mean  all  right.  In- 
deed, it's  awfully  nice  of  them.  And  I  am  here, 
and  father,  and  you  are  where  you  belong." 

And  so,  just  for  a  moment,  there  flashed  before 
them  the  swift  vision  of  a  modest  girl  leaning,  blush- 
ing, on  her  brother's  arm,  and  then,  fluttering  and 
frightened,  she  hid  in  the  big  chair  behind  the  pres- 
ident and  the  committee,  while  the  cheering  outdid 
all  that  had  gone  before. 

What  a  day  it  had  been !  And  what  a  magnificent, 
triumphant  ending!  How  it  lived  in  the  memories 
of  those  young  souls  through  many,  many  years! 
Little  did  they  know  what  was  immediately  before 
them,  and  there  is  not  the  time  for  me  to  tell — how 
the  crash  in  Wall  Street  came  almost  at  the  very 
hour  when  the  college  boys  were  cheering;  how  the 


DONALD   MARCY  199 

gay  Donald  Marcy,  summoned  home  to  New  York, 
found  not  only  his  father's  fortune  wrecked,  but  his 
father  taken  suddenly  from  him  by  death  and 
himself  thrown  entirely  upon  his  own  resources. 

After  a  time  he  paid  one  more  visit  to  the  little 
town  in  the  Vermont  hills. 

"I  had  to  come!"  he  said  to  Fay.  "Somehow  I 
felt  that  I  must  see  you  just  once." 

In  the  afternoon  he  asked  her  if  she  felt  like 
walking  in  the  garden  with  him.  She  was  charming 
that  day — simply  charming.  There  is  no  better 
or  more  womanly  word  to  express  the  kind  of  sweet- 
ness, of  delightfulness,  that  belongs  to  a  girl  like 
Fay.  She  was  so  quiet — in  deference  to  Don's  sor- 
row— yet  she  was  so  cheerful,  to  put  him  at  his  ease; 
she  was  so  modest,  yet  so  frank  and  friendly;  she 
had  such  girlish  cheeks  and  yet  such  deep,  intelligent 
eyes;  she  laughed  so,  and  yet  she  looked  so.  Donald 
felt  as  if  he  were  caught  in  an  undertow  of  loveliness. 
and  carried  off  his  feet.  He  had  never  seen  her  in 
the  halo  of  summer  robes  before,  and  she  was  divine 
in  her  filmy  white  gown. 

She  sat  down,  and  Don  threw  himself  upon  the 
grass  at  her  feet,  and  looked  up  at  her  with  the  sun- 
light flickering  through  the  apple  trees  upon  his 
face.  It  had  grown  older,  that  handsome  face ;  five 
years  older  since  Fay  saw  it  last,  five  weeks  before. 

"Now,"  she  said  in  her  decided  voice,  "tell  me 
all  about  it." 

"Well,  Miss  Fay,  it  is  just  as  I  wrote  you,  only 
worse.     Father  didn't  leave  a  cent  of  all  his  fortune. 


200       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

It's  all  gone!     I'm  just  as  poor  as  any  bootblack." 

*' You  \\TOte  me  of  your  uncle,"  said  Fay.  "Why 
doesn't  he  do  something  for  you'" 

"Oh,  he  has  offered  me  a  place  on  the  paper  as  a 
night  reporter.  If  I  am  extraordinarily  successful 
I  may  make  two  or  three  hundred  dollars  a  year!" 

"Well,  that  is  a  beginning,"  said  Fay  hopefully. 
"Perhaps  your  uncle  means  to  test  you;  how  do 
you  know?  How  do  you  know  but  that  you  will 
be  writing  editorials  on  state  questions  in  the  course 
of  a  few  years?" 

"Well,  you  are  a  good,  sensible,  cheerful  girl,  any- 
how," said  Don.  "I  feel  better  already  for  listening 
to  you.  If  I  ever  amount  to  anything  it  will  all  be 
owing  to  you,  you  know." 

"Oh,  no!"  cried  Fay. 

"Oh,  don't  you  see?"  exclaimed  Donald,  suddenly 
springing  up  an4  standing  before  her.  "Don't  you 
see  why  I'm  so  terribly  cut  up?  Don't  you  see  it's 
all  because,  because — " 

"Oh,  don't!"  she  cried,  blushing. 

"Well,  I  won't  if  you  don't  want  me  to,"  and 
then  there  came  a  dead  pause  and  a  long  silence. 

Fay  cast  down  her  eyes,  and  her  breath  came  a 
little  short. 

"I — didn't  say  I — didn't  ii'ant  you  to — "  she 
admitted  in  a  thrilling  whisper. 

Oh,  then  the  boy  was  at  her  feet!  Then  his  full 
young  heart  foimd  voice.  He  told  her  how  he  loved 
her,  how  he  loved  her,  how  he  had  dreamed  of  her; 
and  now  how  the  long  years  stretched  away  so 


DONALD   MARCY  201 

dreary,  and  how  unmanly  he  felt  it  was  to  ask  such 
a  girl  to  wait  for  him. 

"Why,  you  could  marry  anybody!"  he  cried  in 
mingled  rapture  and  despair. 

"I  can  wait  and  I  can  help,"  she  suggested  softly. 

Donald  suddenly  realized  the  great  thing  that  had 
come  to  him. 

"Oh,  kiss  me.  Fay,"  he  said  in  a  low,  awed  voice. 

He  kneeled  before  her  as  if  she  had  been  the  saint 
of  his  young  life,  and  she  touched  her  lips  to  his 
bared  forehead. 

"Would  you  wait  for  me.  Fay?  Would  you 
really?     Is  that  what  you  meant  to  say?" 

"Donald,  dear,  I  would  wait  for  you  all  my  life," 
was  her  answer. 


SHEILA  MACKENZIE 

T  T  was  at  the  little  Isle  of  Borva  in  the  Hebrides, 
-^  five  hundred  miles  north  from  London.  Two 
men  from  the  city  were  approaching  it  in  a  boat 
from  the  Isle  of  Lewis,  where  they  had  landed  from 
the  steamer.  One  of  them,  Edward  Ingram,  was 
a  clear-headed,  quiet  man  of  forty  years;  the 
other,  Frank  Lavender,  a  young  artist  with  the 
romance  of  his  youth  upon  him.  The  older  man 
had  passed  his  vacation  seasons  here  before;  the 
other  was  on  his  first  visit. 

"Do  you  know,  Ingram,"  said  Frank,  "that  I  am 
just  dying  to  see  this  Highland  princess  of  yours 
whom  I  have  heard  so  much  about.  For  ages 
back  you  have  talked  of  nothing  but  Sheila  Mac- 
kenzie. In  the  club  and  out  camping  and  travel- 
ing— everywhere — it  has  been  descriptions  of  her, 
stories  of  her,  praises  of  her.  And  there  arc  so 
many  opposite  and  contradictory  perfections.  She 
is  romantic  and  susceptible,  and  then,  again,  she  is 
practical  in  a  hundred  useful  ways.  Or,  she  is  shy 
and  quiet  and  looks  unutterable  things  with  her 
soft  and  magnificent  eyes,  and  then  again,  she  can 
sail  a  boat  or  play  her  sixteen-pound  salmon  in  a 
way  that  would  put  us  all  to  shame.  You  say  they 
call  her  grand  old  father  King  of  Borva,  and  so,  of 
course,  she  is  a  princess,  and  I  must  say  you  talk 
as  if  she  were  one." 


SHEILA  MACKENZIE  203 

The  other  smiled  indulgently.  Soon  he  pointed 
to  a  long,  low  line  of  rock  and  hill. 

"There  is  Borva." 

They  spied  a  smaller  boat  rounding  the  point 
from  Borvabost.  One  of  the  old  boatmen  regarded 
her  with  his  eagle  eye. 

"Yes,  it  iss  Miss  Sheila." 

The  boat  from  the  Lewis  came  in  first,  and 
Lavender  watched  the  princess  in  her  boat  as  she 
sailed  it  gracefully  in.  He  was  ready — half  artist, 
half  poet,  and  wholly  romantic  — to  see  a  mermaid 
and  a  princess  in  one.  He  made  out  that  she  had 
an  abundance  of  dark  hair,  looped  up ;  that  she  wore 
a  small  straw  hat  with  a  short  white  feather  in  it; 
that  her  costume  was  a  rough  and  closely  fitting 
one  of  dark  blue,  a  narrow  red  band  about  her  neck. 
Laughing  and  blushing,  she  stepped  on  shore  and 
approaching  Ingram,  without  a  word  she  gave  him 
both  her  hands  in  welcome.  It  was  a  face  at  once 
strong  and  fine,  the  head  well  poised,  the  form  well 
knit  and  athletic.  The  gray-blue  eyes  under  their 
long,  black  lashes  were  perfectly  honest.  In  the 
low,  sweet  brow,  the  short  and  exquisitely  curved 
upper  lip,  and  the  deep  light  of  the  blue  eyes  there 
was  singular  suggestion  of  sensitiveness  and  meek- 
ness. But  somehow  the  face  also  impressed  one 
as  indicating  a  large  reserve  of  strength  and  pride 
and  Highland  fire. 

"Well,  Sheila,  you  haven't  quite  forgotten  me? 
And  you  are  grown  such  a  woman  now!  I  must  n't 
call  you  'Sheila'  any  more.     But  let  me  introduce 


204       FIGURES  FAMED   IN   FICTION 

my  friend,  who  has  come  all  the  way  from  London 
to  see  this  wonderful  land  of  Borva." 

If  there  was  any  embarrassment  during  that  simple 
ceremony  it  was  not  on  the  part  of  the  Highland  girl; 
for  she  shook  hands  frankly  with  him  and  said : 

"And  are  you  ferry  well?" 

And  there  was  her  father;  no  wonder  they  called 
him  King  of  Borva!  His  heavy,  square,  command- 
ing frame  and  big,  gray  beard,  aquiline  nose,  and 
eagle  eyes  set  him  apart  as  one  man  of  a  thousand. 
He  was  sometimes  seen  in  the  distant  town  of 
Stornaway  on  the  Isle  of  Lewis,  the  city  of  the  region, 
the  calling-port  of  the  Glasgow  steamers;  and  the 
children  playing  within  the  shelter  of  the  cottage 
doors  called  to  one  another  in  whispers  and  said: 

"That  is  the  King  of  Borva!" 

"Now,  Sheila,"  said  Ingram  as  they  walked  on 
together,  "tell  me  all  about  yourself.  What  are 
you  doing?  How  are  your  schools  getting  on,  and 
have  you  bribed  or  frightened  the  children  into 
giving  up  the  Gaelic  yet?  And  how  are  your  poor 
people  at  Borvabost?  And  have  you  caught  any 
more  wild  ducks  and  tamed  them?  And  are  there 
any  gray  geese  up  at  Loch-an-Eilean  ? " 

"Oh,  that  is  too  much  at  once,"  said  Sheila, 
laughing.  Adding  after  a  little,  "I  am  afraid  your 
friend  will  find  Borva  very  lonely  and  dull.  All 
the  lads  are  away  at  Caithness,  fishing." 

But  they  now  approached  the  house.  It  was  large 
and  of  dark,  rude  stonework,  the  most  pretentious 
on  the  island. 


SHEILA  MACKENZIE  205 

After  dinner  they  sat  outside  while  the  northern 
night  began  to  fall.  How  strange  it  was  in  these 
high  latitudes — a  night  which  was  twilight  all 
through.  The  sea,  and  the  mountains,  and  the 
clear  air  like  wine,  and  this  mysterious  land!  And 
here  was  the  King  of  Borva,  with  his  daughter  the 
princess,  herself  the  romantic  incarnation  of  all  the 
mystery. 

"By  Jove,  Ingram,"  said  Lavender  that  night, 
the  light  of  enthusiasm  on  his  handsome  face, 
"what  a  princess  she  is,  and  what  a  royal  way  she 
has,  how  frank  and  sincere!  And  what  a  voice 
and  intonation!  To  hear  her  say  ' Styornaway ' ! 
And  then  those  softened  consonants — how  quaint 
and  pleasing — and  that  bewitching  future  tense. 
'And  iss  it  about  Styornaway  you  will  wish  to  ask?' 
she  said."  "Now  look  here,  Frank,"  said  the  other, 
"for  heaven's  sake  don't  begin  with  your  imagina- 
tive nonsense.  They  are  honest,  practical,  sensible 
people  here.  But  you!  Fancy  and  poetry  and 
whatnot  just  fly  away  with  you.  But  I  don't  mind 
telling  you  that  if  you  are  friendly  and  straight- 
forward with  Sheila,  and  treat  her  like  a  human 
being  instead  of  trying  to  envelop  her  in  a  cloud  of 
romance  and  sentiment,  she  will  teach  you  more 
than  you  could  learn  in  a  hundred  drawing  rooms  in 
a  thousand  years," 

But  the  young  man  never  took  the  advice.  Im- 
pelled by  his  temperament,  by  his  artist's  habit  of 
daydreaming,  by  the  weird  northern  land  with  its 
dim  legends — it  was  inevitable — he  made  this  child 


2o6       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

of  nature  a  figure  in  the  wildest  romance.  In  the 
house  that  evening  there  sat  the  King  of  Borva, 
and  his  daughter  the  princess  had  the  glamour  of 
a  hundred  legends  dwelling  in  her  beautiful  eyes. 
And  when  she  sang  "The  Wail  of  Dunevegan," 
"The  Farewell  to  Mackrimmon,"  and  "Lochaber 
no  more,"  simple,  sad  songs  of  the  northern  sea — it 
was  the  voice  of  romance  itself.  One  evening  they 
all  went  down  to  Borvabost.  And  lo!  he  found 
himself  walking  with  a  princess  in  this  wonderland, 
through  the  magic  twilight  of  its  northern  clime, 
and  she  talking  with  him  lightly  and  frankly  with 
her  silvery  voice  and  the  softened  consonants.  It 
was  all  like  the  enchantment  of  a  dream.  Or,  on 
that  night  when  she — with  the  tall  keeper  Duncan — 
took  him  in  her  boat  round  the  point  to  Borvabost; 
then  home  again  in  the  evening  with  the  moon  in 
the  clear  sky  over  the  liquid  plain  of  Loch  Roag 
with  its  pathway  of  yellow  fire  that  quivered  in  the 
deeper  shades  of  violet,  while  off  to  the  west  were 
the  gray  shoulders  of  the  mountains,  clear  and  sharp 
in  the  northern  twilight.  It  was  enchantment 
itself,  and  the  wonderful  princess  was  glorified  in 
its  light. 

To  be  sure,  he  had  to  confess  that  she  would 
persist  in  talking  in  a  very  matter-of-fact  way.  While 
he  was  weaving  a  luminous  web  of  imagination 
around  her,  she  was  continually  cutting  it  asunder 
and  telling  him  of  her  schools,  of  her  plans  for  the 
poor  people — how  to  improve  their  dismal  homes 
and  brighten  up  their  lives.     And  yet  the  romance 


SHEILA   MACKENZIE  207 

refused  to  vanish.  To  live  forever  in  this  magic 
land,  to  sail  with  this  sea-princess,  attended  only 
by  her  great  deer  hound  and  the  faithful  Duncan, 
over  the  moonlit  waters,  under  the  shadow  of  the 
great  hills,  in  the  calm  of  this  beautiful  and  distant 
solitude,  forgetting  the  nightmare  of  godless  and 
artificial  London — might  there  not  be  possible 
something  of  a  nobler  life?  And  then,  some  day 
or  other  he  would  take  this  island  princess  down  to 
London,  and  he  would  bid  the  women  that  he 
knew — the  scheming  mothers  and  frivolous  daugh- 
ters— stand  aside  from  before  this  perfect  work  of 
God.  She  would  carry  the  mystery  of  the  sea  in 
the  depths  of  her  eyes,  and  the  music  of  the  far  hills 
would  be  heard  in  her  voice,  and  all  the  sweetness 
and  brightness  of  the  clear  summer  skies  would  be 
mirrored  in  her  innocent  soul.  What  a  sensation 
would  the  Princess  of  Borva  create  in  the  London 
drawing  rooms !  Would  not  every  one  wish  to  know 
her?  How  they  would  listen  to  her  singing  of  those 
Gaelic  songs!  And  would  not  all  his  artist  friends 
be  anxious  to  paint  her?  And  when  she  went  down 
to  the  Academy,  how  every  one  would  remark  the 
failure  of  the  canvas  to  catch  the  light  and  dignity 
and  sweetness  of  her  face ! 

Now  we  cannot  pause  to  dwell  upon  her  real 
worth.  Distorted  though  she  was  in  the  artist's 
imagination,  she  yet  really  surpassed  his  concep- 
tion. With  a  sound  mind  and  a  pure  life,  she 
possessed  a  heart  of  gold,  unselfish,  brave,  and  ut- 
terly true.    Her  simple  frankness  and  self-possession 


2oS       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

—  the  strangeness  of  it  almost  baffled  him.  Frank 
Lavender  confessed  to  himself  that  Sheila  Mac- 
kenzie was  either  a  miracle  of  ingenuousness  or  a 
thorough  mistress  in  the  art  of  assuming  it.  On 
the  one  hand,  he  considered  it  almost  impossible 
for  a  woman  to  be  so  ingenuous.  On  the  other 
hand,  how  could  this  girl  have  taught  herself,  in 
the  solitude  of  this  northern  island,  a  species  of 
histrionicism  which  ladies  in  London  social  circles 
strove  for  years  to  acquire,  and  rarely  acquired 
in  any  perfection? 

The  result  of  this  romantic  acquaintance  was  what 
might  have  been  expected.  But  when  the  young 
man  informed  his  friend  that  he  intended  to  make 
Sheila  Mackenzie  his  wife,  if  that  were  possible,  he 
received  a  lecture  on  the  folly  of  it ;  a  piece  of  advice 
very  plain  and  very  sensible. 

"I  tell  you,  my  dear  Frank,  you  know  nothing 
about  her  as  yet,  and  if  you  marry  her  you  will  be 
disappointed — not  through  her  fault,  but  your  own. 
Why,  a  more  preposterous  notion  never  entered  a 
man's  head.  She  knows  nothing  of  your  friends 
or  of  your  ways  of  life;  and  if  she  does  not  succeed 
in  conforming  to  the  elaborate  conventions  of  your 
social  circle — then  what?  Why,  you  will  be  in  a 
state  of  mind,  and  she  will  make  herself  miserable 
in  trying  to  please  you,  and  the  whole  thing  will  end 
in  pitiable  failure.  So,  now,  do  give  up  your  mad 
notion,  like  a  sensible  fellow." 

But  no;  romantic  infatuation  had  its  way.  And, 
to  do  the  young  man  justice,  he  seemed  to  have 


SHEILA  MACKENZIE  209 

some  glimmer  of  good  sense  in  the  method  of  his 
suit.  He  told  her  one  day,  very  simply,  that  he 
had  a  request  to  make  of  her,  a  very  little  one.  She 
knew  so  little  of  him  that  he  had  no  right  to  ask  her 
much,  but  would  she,  at  some  distant,  future  day 
let  him  come  and  ask  her  to  be  his  wife? 

It  was  a  little  thing,  it  committed  her  to  nothing, 
and,  meanwhile,  if  she  felt  that  she  must,  she  could 
write  him  that  he  must  not  come.  Even  so,  she 
was  troubled,  wishing  to  be  simply  his  friend, 
dreading  anything  that  would  make  his  visits 
impossible  in  the  future,  regretting  that  his  disturb- 
ing question  had  ever  intruded.  To  live  with  her 
father  always — his  only  child  and  only  companion  — 
was  her  one  desire.  To  his  question,  might  he  not 
come  and  ask  her  at  some  distant  day,  she  only 
said,  "Perhaps,"  giving  him  a  long,  troubled  look 
out  of  her  deep  eyes. 

Vacation  at  length  was  over;  the  stay  of  the 
visitors  came  to  an  end,  and  the  morning  came 
when  Sheila  and  her  father  bade  them  good-by 
on  the  deck  of  the  steamer  at  Stornaway.  On 
the  journey  home  the  younger  man  could  talk  of 
nothing  but  romance,  while  the  other  sought  to 
supply  the  corrective. 

' '  I  want  to  tell  you  frankly,  my  friend,  that  with 
all  your  high-flown  notions  you  have  no  idea  of 
what  you  have  possibly  won.  You  do  not  know 
the  magnificent  single-heartedness  of  that  girl, 
her  keen  sense  of  honor,  her  self-reliance,  and  how 
true  she  is  to  her  friends.     If  you  know  how  to 


210       FIGURES   FAMED  IN   FICTION 

value  such  a  treasure  there  is  not  a  king  in  all  Europe 
who  should  not  envy  you !  The  character,  the  mind, 
the  wisdom  that  lie  beneath  her  simplicity!  Why, 
I  have  known  Sheila  now — but  what's  the  use  of 
talking?" 

Well,  six  months  later,  although  it  was  winter, 
Lavender  made  the  journey  to  the  northern  isles. 
And  on  the  steamer's  dock  at  Stornaway  there 
stood  old  Mackenzie,  stamping  up  and  down  in 
the  snow.  And  that  other  figure  near  him!  Surely 
there  was  something  about  the  graceful  form,  the 
white  feather,  the  set  of  the  head  that  he  knew! 

"Why,  Sheila,"  he  cried,  jumping  ashore  before 
the  gangway  plank  was  laid,  "whatever  made  you 
come  over  to  Stornaway  on  such  a  winter  day?" 

"And  it  iss  not  much,  my  coming  to  Styornaway, 
if  you  will  come  up  all  the  way  from  England," 
she  said,  looking  up  with  her  bright  and  glad  eyes. 

"Aye!  aye!"  said  Mackenzie.  "It  wass  a  piece 
of  foolishness,  her  coming  over  to  meet  you  in 
Styornaway;  but  the  girl  will  be  neither  to  hold 
nor  to  bind  when  she  teks  a  foolishness  into  her 
head." 

And  then  the  pleasant  days  and  evenings,  even 
although  it  was  winter  and  in  the  north.  For  it 
did  not  take  very  long  to  explain  things,  you  know. 
And  it  was  settled  that  some  time  in  the  spring 
the  young  artist  was  to  come  and  claim  his  bride, 
and  bear  her  away  from  her  northern  home.  But 
not  to  stay  all  the  year  through.  Oh,  no!  They 
would  come  for  long  sojourns  in  the  Lewis,  and  the 


SHEILA  MACKENZIE  211 

painter  would  immortalize  the  glorious  Northern 
Isles,  and  his  sea-princess  should  be  proud  of  him, 
and  should  be  happy  in  not  being  a  perpetual  exile 
from  her  native  shores. 

The  coming  of  the  springtime  brought  another 
journey  from  London.  The  wedding  ceremony  was 
in  Stornaway,  the  good-by,  so  hard  to  say,  was  over, 
and  the  young  bride  sailed  away  for  her  southern 
home,  to  enter  the  new  and  untried  life. 

But  the  world  of  wonder !  The  strange,  new  world 
of  London !  The  enormous  houses,  the  hurry  of  the 
people,  the  deafening  noises! 

"You  are  in  a  trance.  Sheila,"  said  her  husband 
as  they  were  driven  through  the  streets;  and  she 
did  not  answer. 

And  this  was  her  home!  This  section  of  a  bar- 
rack-row of  dwellings,  all  alike  in  steps,  pillars, 
doors,  and  windows!  The  servant  opened  the  door 
politely,  and  Lavender  hurried  his  wife  up  the 
stairs,  fearing  she  would  shake  hands  with  the  girl 
and  say,  "And  you  are  ferry  well?" 

As  soon  as  they  were  fairly  settled  they  received 
a  visit  from  Ingram.  The  delight  with  which  he 
was  received!  The  questions  he  had  to  ask  about 
the  islands  and  all  the  old  friends  there! 

"Just  wait,  now,  till  I  will  get  a  little  lunch  for 
you,"  said  the  young  wife. 

"Sheila,  you  can  ring  for  it,"  said  her  husband; 

but  she  had  already  gone.     Returning,  she  placed 

a  small  table  close  by  the  large  window,  drew  back 

the  curtains  as  far  as  they  would  go,  and  wheeled 

14 


212       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

three  low  easy-chairs  into  place.  Her  husband 
was  inwardly  disquieted.  If  she  had  only  been 
taught  the  necessity  of  cultivating  the  art  of  help- 
lessness! But  perhaps  that,  with  other  social 
graces,  would  come  in  due  time.  And  yet  his  eyes 
were  not  quite  blinded  to  the  simple  grace  and  dig- 
nity with  which  she  served  them. 

"You  see  we  are  not  in  society  yet,"  said  Lavender. 
Sheila  had  left  the  room  for  a  moment  on  some 
errand.  "No  one  is  supposed  to  know  we  have 
come  to  London.  I  must  get  Sheila  dressed  prop- 
erly, you  know,  before  I  can  introduce  her  to  my 
friends." 

The  other  began  to  smile  contemptuously. 

"Why,  of  course  you  wouldn't  have  her  wear 
those  things  she  brought  from  the  Lewis,  would 
you?" 

"That  is  precisely  what  I  would  have,"  said 
Ingram.  "She  couldn't  possibly  look  better  in 
anything  else." 

"Why,"  said  the  young  man,  "my  friends  would 
think  I  had  married  a  savage." 

And  now  began  the  work  of  getting  ready  for 
that  awful  thing,  "Society!"  Time  was,  indeed, 
when  the  young  man  used  to  picture  to  himself 
those  scenes  when  the  wonderful  sea-princess  would 
enter  crowded  drawing  rooms  and  create  such  a 
sensation.  How  people  would  gaze  at  her  admir- 
ingly, and  talk  in  undertones  of  suppressed  enthu- 
siasm; beautiful  creature  from  the  strange  northern 
land!    And  the  anticipation  of  it  all  had  been  a 


SHEILA  MACKENZIE  213 

kind  of  intoxication.  And  yet  he  already  found 
himself  secretly  wishing  she  were  more  like  the 
women  he  knew;  and  to  aid  in  this  desired  consum- 
mation he  was  invoking  the  art  of  the  dressmaker 
and  the  milliner,  regardless  of  expense. 

Her  peculiarities  of  speech  also  disturbed  him. 
The  time  was  when  he  had  earnestly  assured  her 
that  the  speech  of  English  folk  was  as  the  croaking  of 
the  raven  compared  with  the  sweet  tones  and  delight- 
ful pronunciation  of  the  northern  isles.     But  now — 

"Sheila,"  said  he,  as  they  were  preparing  to 
attend  their  first  dinner  party,  "why  do  you  say 
'like-a-ness'?  There  are  only  two  syllables  in 
'  likeness. '     It  really  does  sound  absurd  to  hear  you. ' ' 

She  looked  up  to  him  with  a  quick  trouble  in  her 
eyes.  Then  she  cast  them  down  and  said  submis- 
sively : 

"I  will  try  not  to  speak  like  that.  When  you  go 
out  I  take  a  book  and  read  aloud,  and  try  to  speak 
like  you.     But  I  cannot  learn  all  at  once." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind;  but  you  know  other  people 
must  think  it  so  odd.  I  wonder  why  you  should 
always  say  'gyarden'  for  'garden'  and  'Styorn- 
away'  for  'Stornaway,'  when  it  is  just  as  easy  to 
speak  them  right." 

She  did  not  remind  him  that  once  he  had  singled 
out  these  very  words  as  delightful  in  their  softened 
sound  when  she  uttered  them.  She  only  said,  in 
the  same  simple  fashion : 

"If  you  will  tell  me  my  faults,  dear,  I  will  try  to 
correct  them." 


214       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

"Oh,  it  will  all  come  right  at  last,"  he  replied. 
"If  you  should  startle  or  puzzle  the  ladies  a  little 
at  first  by  talking  of  salmon  fishing  or  the  catching 
of  wild  ducks  or  the  reclaiming  of  bogland,  you  will 
soon  get  over  all  that." 

She  said  nothing;  but  she  made  mental  note  of 
the  things  she  was  not  to  talk  about,  and  the  words 
she  must  not  mispronounce. 

"Now  when  we  are  at  this  soiree,"  he  continued, 
"above  all  things  mind  you  take  no  notice  of  me. 
Another  man  will  take  you  in  to  dinner,  of  course. 
I  shall  take  in  somebody  else,  and  we  shall  not  be 
near  each  other.  But  it's  after  dinner,  I  mean  — • 
when  we  are  in  the  drawing  room.  Don't  you  come 
up  to  me  or  take  any  notice  of  me  whatever." 

"Mayn't  I  look  at  you,  Frank?" 

"Why,  if  you  do,  you'll  have  half  a  dozen  people 
all  watching  you,  saying  to  themselves,  'Poor  thing, 
she  hasn't  got  over  her  infatuation  yet,'  and  so  on." 

"But  I  shouldn't  mind  them  saying  that,"  she 
said  with  a  smile. 

"Oh,  well,  dear,  it  wouldn't  do,  you  know." 

The  dinner  was  of  the  usual  formal  kind,  where 
people  make  believe  they  enjoy  themselves.  Sheila 
made  no  fatal  blunders,  but  she  certainly  created  no 
sensation.  Lavender  had  to  acknowledge  to  himself 
that  she  was  just  like  anybody  else  in  the  drawing 
room,  forgetting  that  he  had  been  teaching  her  to 
conform  to  the  dress  and  customs  of  the  people  about 
her  so  that  she  might  avoid  singularity.     Where 


SHEILA  MACKENZIE  215 

was  the  social  triumph  he  had  imagined?  He  had 
to  confess  to  a  certain  sense  of  failure. 

And  there  is  little  need  to  say  that  the  High- 
land girl  found  it  exceedingly  tiresome.  What 
with  observing  all  the  proprieties  so  new  to  her, 
and  the  subjects  of  conversation  to  be  avoided,  and 
the  difficulties  of  pronunciation — it  was  a  strain 
upon  her  day  after  day  which,  to  say  the  least,  did 
not  minister  to  happiness. 

"Sheila,"  said  her  husband  one  day,  "it  is  really 
too  bad — do  you  know  whom  I  found  in  the  hall 
when  I  came  home  this  afternoon?  Why,  it  was 
that  wretched  hag  who  keeps  the  fruit  stall.  Sup- 
pose I  had  brought  any  one  home  to  dinner." 

"She  is  a  poor  old  woman,"  said  Sheila  humbly. 

' '  But  what  must  the  servants  think  of  you !  They 
say  you  had  her  whole  family  in  the  kitchen  to 
supper  last  night.  Do  not  make  yourself  ridiculous, 
I  pray." 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  as  if  she  did  not  under- 
stand. And  then  she  said,  with  a  touch  of  indig- 
nation about  the  beautiful  Hps,  "And  if  I  make 
myself  ridiculous  by  attending  to  poor  people,  it 
is  not  my  husband  should  tell  me  so,"  and  going 
up  to  her  room,  unable  to  restrain  herself,  she  burst 
into  tears. 

Her  heart  was  bitter,  not  against  him,  but  against 
the  false  and  conventional  social  life  which  so  held 
him  in  its  power  and  made  him  so  different  from 
his  real  self.  And  then  she  thought  of  the  old  and 
beautiful  days  up  in  the  Lewis,  when  he  so  approved 


210       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

of  her  siniple  ways  and  her  charitable  work.  What 
had  happened?  There  was  no  great  gulf  of  time 
since  then.  She  had  not  changed;  she  loved  her 
husband  with  her  whole  heart  and  soul.  But  all 
about  her  was  changed.  She  was  in  a  new  world, 
and  surely  not  a  better  one.  And  a  great  yearning 
arose  within  her  to  go  back  to  her  own  land.  Her 
heart  was  breaking  w4th  thought  of  the  sea  and  the 
hills,  and  the  rude  and  sweet  and  simple  ways  of  the 
dear  old  life  she  had  left  behind  her. 

"Do  you  know.  Sheila,"  said  her  husband  one 
day,  "it  occurs  to  me  you  are  not  quite  comfortable 
here.  You  seem  to  have  a  perverse  fancy  that  you 
are  different  from  the  people  you  meet;  that  you 
cannot  be  like  them,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Now 
it  will  be  all  right  if  only  you  will  take  a  little  trouble. ' ' 

"Oh,  Frank,"  she  said,  going  over  and  putting 
her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  "I  cannot  be  like  these 
people ;  it  is  no  use  that  I  will  try.  But  if  you  could 
only  be  like  what  you  used  to  be !  Up  in  the  Lewis 
you  were  yourself,  and  I  am  sure  you  were  happier." 

And  yet  she  was  so  loyal!  Any  slight  put  upon 
her  husband  would  strike  the  Highland  fire  in  her 
eyes.  When  she  was  introduced  to  his  eccentric 
aunt,  the  latter  questioned  her  as  to  why  she  left 
her  northern  home. 

"Because  my  husband  wished  me." 

"Oh,  you  think  your  husband  should  be  the  first 
law  of  your  life?" 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"Even  when  he  is  only  silly  Frank  Lavender?" 


SHEILA   MACKENZIE  217 

Sheila  rose.  Her  lips  quivered,  and  her  proud 
eyes  flashed  with  indignation. 

"What  you  may  say  of  me,  that  I  do  not  care. 
But  if  you  will  insult  my  husband — " 

"Well,  well!  You  are  a  little  mad,  but  you  are  a 
good  girl,  and  I  want  to  be  friends  with  you.  You 
have  in  you  the  spirit  of  a  dozen  Frank  Lavenders." 

"You  will  never  make  friends  with  me  by  speak- 
ing ill  of  my  husband,"  said  she,  with  the  fire  still 
in  her  eyes. 

They  were  conversing  one  day,  Sheila  and  her 
old  friend  Ingram.  He  had  his  suspicions  of  the 
trouble  in  her  life,  and  was  wondering  whether  he 
could  help  her. 

"Sheila,"  he  said,  in  his  old,  paternal  way,  "I 
know  you'll  think  me  impertinent,  but  you  do  know 
I  am  your  friend.  Now  I  am  sure  there  is  something 
wrong,  and  I  cannot  help  wishing  you  would  be 
frank  with  me  and  tell  me  what  it  is." 

She  was  grateful  in  her  inmost  heart;  she  trusted 
this  man  as  she  would  have  trusted  her  own  father; 
and  yet  she  hesitated.  How  could  she  do  it!  And 
yet,  he  might  be  able  to  help  her.  So  she  told  the 
whole  sad  story,  putting  the  most  favorable  con- 
struction upon  every  act  of  her  husband,  and  pro- 
testing that  her  love  for  him  was  still  unchanged. 
The  situation,  as  it  appeared  to  her  listener,  was 
alarming,  for  he  knew  the  latent  force  of  character 
that  underlay  all  her  submissive  gentleness.  He 
knew  the  keen  sense  of  pride  her  Highland  birth 
had  given  her.    And  he  feared  what  might  happen 


2iS       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

if  this  sensitive,  proud  heart  of  hers  should  be  driven 
to  the  Hmit  of  its  endurance.  Still,  he  put  on  a 
bright  face,  said  no  word  against  her  husband,  and 
told  her  to  cheer  up,  promising  to  do  whatever  he 
was  able. 

"Look  here,  Lavender,"  said  he  when  they  met, 
"it  is  an  awkward  thing  for  one  to  interfere  between 
husband  and  wife,  I  am  well  aware;  he  generally 
gets  more  kicks  than  thanks.  I  am  sure  I  do  not 
want  to  say  anything  uncalled  for,  but  if  I  were  you 
I  would  try  to  see  and  to  feel  what  your  wife  is 
enduring  these  days." 

As  he  went  on  in  a  guarded  way,  the  younger 
man  lost  all  patience. 

"Oh,  so  she  has  been  complaining  to  you,  has  she, 
appearing  in  the  character  of  an  injured  wife?  I 
prefer  that  she  should  come  to  me  instead  of  calling 
in  a  third  person  to  humor  her  whims  and  fancies." 

The  dark  eyes  of  Edward  Ingram  blazed  with  a 
quick  fire,  for  a  sneer  at  Sheila  was  worse  than  an 
insult  to  himself. 

"Whims  and  fancies!"  said  he.  "Do  you  know 
what  you  are  talking  about?  Do  you  know  that 
while  you  are  wasting  your  time  in  these  confounded 
tomfooleries  of  social  life  you  are  breaking  the 
heart  of  a  girl  who  has  not  her  equal  in  England? 
Good  heavens!  I  wonder  sometimes  how  she  has 
endured — " 

He  checked  himself;  but  the  mischief  was  done. 
They  were  not  prudent  words,  but  he  could  not  un- 
say them^ 


SHEILA  MACKENZIE  219 

"Sheila,"  said  her  husband  when  he  went  home, 
"I  have  something  to  ask  of  you.  It  is  that  you 
will  henceforth  hold  no  communication  with  Mr. 
Ingram." 

It  was  the  most  cruel  requirement  he  could  have 
laid  upon  her.  It  seemed  like  the  cutting  of  the 
last  bond  that  reached  back  to  the  old  times  and  the 
unforgotten  northern  home.  For  a  moment  her 
heart  was  in  a  tempest  of  surprise  and  doubt  and 
indignation.  Then  her  superb  self-control  came  to 
her  aid.     She  cast  down  her  eyes  and  said  meekly; 

"Very  well,  dear." 

He  was  surprised,  and  somewhat  mortified.  He 
had  expected  something  of  protest,  and  then  he 
would  air  his  grievances.  As  it  was,  he  could  say 
nothing. 

This  kind  of  life  could  not  continue  indefinitely. 
One  day  the  crisis  came.  It  was  when  Sheila's 
cousin  Mairi  came  on  a  visit  from  Borva. 

"Who  is  in  the  house?"  said  Lavender,  seeing 
some  wraps  in  the  hall.  "Have  you  asked  some 
washerwoman  in  to  lunch?" 

"It  is  Mairi  come  from  Stornaway,"  said  his  wife. 
"I  was  thinking  you  would  be  surprised  to  see  her 
when  you  came  in." 

"Look  here,  Sheila.  I  have  asked  some  friends 
to  luncheon  at  two.  I  hope  to  goodness  you  don't 
expect  to  bring  her  in,  and  have  her  sit  at  the  table 
with  us." 

"Mairi  is  my  cousin,"  said  Sheila  quietly. 

"Now,  don't  be  ridiculous,  Sheila.     You  know 


2  20       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

very  well  that  she  is  nothing  but  a  kitchen  maid. 
And  if  she  is  to  be  introduced  to  my  friends  and  all 
that,  I  say  it  is  too  bad." 

"Do  not  fear,"  said  his  wife;  "it  shall  not  be  that 
she  will  annoy  you.  There  will  be  luncheon  for 
your  friends  at  two;  but  we  will  not  trouble  them — 
Mairi  and  I  —  for  if  my  relations  are  not  fit  to  meet 
them,  I  am  not." 

There  w^as  the  perfect  self-control  again.  There 
was  no  passion  in  the  quiet  voice  nor  in  the  down- 
cast eyes.  But  the  crisis  had  come.  The  strong, 
clear  mind  saw  that  the  situation  was  untenable. 
Within  an  hour  after  Lavender's  departure  his  wife 
and  her  Highland  cousin  had  left  the  house  together, 
never  to  return. 

The  clock  struck  the  midnight  hour,  and  she  did 
not  come.  Frank  Lavender  began  to  realize  that  a 
terrible  thing  had  happened  to  him. 

"Ingram,"  said  he — for  he  went  direct  to  his 
friend — "you  don't  know  anything  about  it?  You 
don't  know  where  she  has  gone  ?  What  am  I  to  do, 
Ingram?  How  am  I  to  find  her?  Good  God,  don't 
you  understand  what  I  tell  you?  It's  past  midnight, 
and  my  poor  girl  may  be  wandering  about  the 
streets." 

' '  Gone  from  your  home  ? ' '  said  the  other.  ' '  What 
made  her  do  that?" 

"I  did.  I  have  acted  like  a  brute  to  her.  You 
needn't  reproach  me  now;  do  that  by  and  by  all 
you  please,  but  just  now  tell  me  what  to  do.  Help 
me  to  find  her.     All  I  want  is  to  see  her  for  just 


SHEILA   MACKENZIE  221 

three  minutes  to  tell  her  it  was  all  a  mistake,  and 
that  she  will  never  have  to  fear  anything  like  that 
again." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  said  his  friend  slowly, 
"that  you  fancy  all  this  trouble  is  to  be  got  over 
that  way?  Do  you  know  so  little  of  Sheila  as  to 
imagine  that  she  has  taken  this  step  out  of  a  momen- 
tary caprice,  and  that  a  few  words  of  apology  and 
promise  will  cause  her  to  rescind  it?  You  must  be 
crazed,  Lavender;  or  else  you  are  actually  as  ig- 
norant of  the  nature  of  that  girl  as  you  were  up  in 
the  Highlands." 

The  young  man  sat  ashamed  and  repentant.  He 
did  not  answer. 

"Now,  my  friend,  let  me  tell  you  something," 
continued  the  other.  "You  remember  the  time 
when  I  said  that  you  should  consider  yourself  more 
fortunate  than  if  you  had  been  crowned  an  emperor? 
You  had  won  the  noblest  woman  I  ever  knew.  And 
then,  when  she  staked  her  faith  in  human  nature 
on  you,  and  gave  you  all  the  treasures  of  hope  and 
reverence  and  love  that  lay  in  her  pure,  true  soul — 
good  heavens!  what  have  you  done  with  these? 
How  you  came  to  hold  the  treasure  so  lightly — well, 
God  only  knows.  The  thing  is  inconceivable  to  me. 
With  your  insane  social  ambitions  you  dragged  her 
into  an  artificial  life  that  was —  Frank,  I  have  no 
patience  when  I  think  of  it !  The  child  did  her  dead 
best  to  live  this  strange  life,  and  failed,  and  I  honor 
her  in  the  failure.  And  now  you  may  rest  assured 
of  this  one  thing:     she    has   thought   the   matter 


222       FIGURES  FAMED  IN  FICTION 

through,  and  she  is  not  going  into  that  hfe  again." 

"But  is  there  any  hope  of  my  getting  her  back? 
That  is  the  question." 

"How  do  I  know?  If  you  have  not  already  de- 
stroyed her  faith  in  you,  there  may  be  some  hope. 
I  happen  to  know  that  some  months  since  she  be- 
lieved in  you,  and  laid  all  the  blame  at  the  door  of 
"Society"  that  so  had  you  in  its  power,  and  believed 
that  if  you  could  cut  loose  from  it  you  would  be 
yourself  again.  Perhaps  she  was  mistaken;  I  don't 
say  anything  about  it  myself." 

The  terribly  cool  way  in  which  the  man  talked 
was  frightful ;  and  he  concluded  by  saying : 

"I  will  find  her  if  she  is  in  London,  but  I  should 
advise  you  not  to  attempt  to  see  her.  If  you  should, 
you  could  give  her  nothing  but  promises,  and  she 
would  very  justly  hold  them  to  be  of  no  value. 
Perhaps  she  will  never  consent  to  see  you  again.  I 
do  not  know.  But  my  suggestion  to  you  is  this; 
that  you  actually  begin  to  live  a  natural  life,  a  life 
of  work  and  good  sense  and  earnestness  and  freedom 
from  these  accursed  conventional  shackles.  And 
then,  when  you  are  established  in  this  new  and 
w^holesome  life,  perhaps — I  do  not  know — perhaps 
you  can  win  Sheila  Mackenzie  over  again.  At  least 
you  can  try." 

It  was  sound  advice,  and  the  young  man  followed 
it.  How  he  left  London  for  the  Scottish  coast  and 
wrought  in  his  artist's  profession  with  a  diligence, 
an  ambition,  and  a  success  that  he  never  thought  to 
know,  we  cannot  pause  to  tell.     And  how  Ingram 


SHEILA  MACKENZIE  223 

found  Sheila  in  London ;  how  she  quietly  and  stead- 
fastly refused  to  see  her  husband,  saying  only, 
"Tell  him  I  am  well,  and  not  to  be  anxious 
about  me";  how  she  returned  to  her  home  in  the 
Lewis,  taking  up  the  old  life  again — the  life  she 
knew  before  her  great  happiness  and  her  great 
trouble  came  together — of  all  this  there  is  not  the 
time  to  tell. 

"Now,  Lavender,"  said  two  or  three  of  his  friends 
who  had  found  him  out,  "what  is  the  use  of  your 
working  so  like  all  possessed  every  minute  of  your 
life?  On  this  desolate  Scottish  coast,  too!  Come 
with  us  for  an  outing !  We  are  going  on  a  little  tour 
among  the  northern  islands." 

And  when  they  anchored  off  Borvabost — for 
Lavender  said  to  himself  that  he  must  see  it  at 
least  once  more — "I  say,"  said  his  artist  friend 
John  Eyre  (he  called  him  "Johnnie,"  and,  by  the  way, 
he  had  told  him  his  story),  "I  say,  I  am  going  ashore 
and  call  on  Mackenzie,  and  I  '11  see  what  I  can  find 
out,  you  know." 

"And  now  what  is  this,"  said  old  Mackenzie  as 
they  sat  at  supper,  "what  is  this  I  see  in  the  papers 
about  pictures  painted'  by  a  gentleman  named 
Lavender?    Perhaps  you  hef  seen  the  pictures?" 

' '  Well,  I  should  think  so ! "  said  Johnnie.  ' '  Every- 
body is  talking  of  them." 

There  was  a  strange,  proud  look  on  Sheila's  face. 
Johnnie  saw  it. 

"I  know  some  folks  who  know  the  man,"  he  said. 
"Famous?     He  got  eight  hundred  pounds  for  his 


224       FIGURES  FAMED   IN  FICTION 

last  picture.  And  of  all  places  to  spend  the  winter 
in,  Jura  is  about  the  very  —  " 

"Jura!"  said  Sheila  quickly,  and  growing  pale. 

It  was  two  hundred  miles  away,  but  it  seemed  so 
near,  compared  with  London. 

That  night  Sheila  dreamed  that  an  angel  of  God 
stood  before  her  saying,  "Are  you  a  woman,  and 
yet  slow  to  forgive?  Has  not  the  man  you  love 
suffered  enough?  Have  you  no  word  of  hope  to 
send  him?  What  would  become  of  us  all  if  there 
were  no  such  thing  as  forgiveness?" 

She  woke,  and  slept  again,  and  dreamed  that  she 
went  to  the  angel  whom  she  had  seen  before,  and 
with  her  head  bowed  down  she  promised  to  forgive 
and  welcome  and  love  the  wanderer  if  only  the 
opportunity  were  given. 

Lavender  went  ashore  in  the  early  morning. 
Sheila,  with  her  father,  paid  a  visit  to  the  yacht  in 
the  harbor.  And  when,  returning  to  the  house,  she 
entered  it  alone,  there  sat  her  husband,  his  face 
buried  in  his  hands.  He  did  not  hear  her  light 
footstep;  and  she  stole  silently  in,  knelt  by  his  side, 
and  bowed  her  head  upon  his  knee,  saying  simply,  "I 
beg  for  your  forgiveness." 

He  started  as  if  a  spirit  had  touched  him. 

"Sheila,"  he  said  gently,  "it  is  I  who  ought  to  be 
there,  and  you  know  it.  I  have  no  right  to  ask  for 
your  forgiveness  yet.  All  I  want  is  this ;  if  you  will  let 
me  come  and  see  you  just  as  before  we  were  married, 
and  if  you  will  give  me  the  chance  of  winning  your 
consent  over  again.      This  is  the  only  thing  I  ask." 


SHEILA   MACKENZIE  225 

"No,"  she  said  with  streaming  eyes,  "no,  not  that, 
not  that  at  all!  If  we  are  to  begin  together  a  new 
life,  will  you  promise  me  never  to  say  one  word 
about  what  is  past — not  a  word  —  to  shut  it  out 
altogether — to  forget  it?" 

He  protested  that  he  could  not.  But  when  he 
saw  the  great  love  in  her  eyes  he  promised  her  what 
she  asked,  hopeless  of  making  any  other  or  better 
reparation. 

And  that  evening  was  delightful,  with  the  old- 
time  songs  and  stories,  and  the  planning  of  the  new 
house  at  Borvabost  that  was  to  be.  The  music  in 
Sheila's  voice,  and  the  beautiful  light  in  her  eyes, 
told  of  a  new  and  a  different  life  already  begun. 
She  was  now  to  the  young  husband  not  the  wonder- 
ful sea-princess,  with  dreams  in  her  eyes  and  the 
mystery  about  her  of  the  night  and  the  stars  and 
the  sea.  No;  she  was  a  woman  with  a  heart  of 
gold;  a  wife,  sweet  and  strong  and  loyal,  the  very 
best  of  heaven's  blessings.  And  he  was  as  grateful 
for  it  as  a  man  could  be. 


SYDNEY  CARTON 

TN  the  year  of  grace  seventeen  hundred  eighty, 
-■•  a  young  man  stood  before  the  bar  in  the  Old 
Bailey,  London,  on  trial  for  his  life.  He  was  a 
Frenchman  of  about  five  and  twenty,  of  distin- 
guished bearing,  with  a  sunburnt  cheek  and  a  dark 
eye.  The  name  under  which  he  was  arraigned  was 
Charles  Darnay.  The  charge  was  treason;  or, 
more  definitely,  that  of  being  a  spy,  coming  and 
going  between  Paris  and  London  and  doing  infinite 
damage  to  the  cause  of  our  Serene  Lord,  the  King 
of  England.  Among  other  witnesses  the  prosecution 
brought  forward  a  young  woman.  Leaning  upon 
her  father's  arm,  her  striking  beauty  and  her  evident 
solicitude  for  the  prisoner  so  impressed  the  spectators 
that  those  who  had  no  pity  for  him  were  touched  by 
her;  and  the  whisper  went  about,  "Who  is  she?" 

She  testified  that  five  years  before  she  was  travel- 
ing from  Paris  to  London  with  her  father,  then  an 
invalid,  and  that  the  prisoner  was  attentive  and  kind 
to  them.  "I  hope,"  she  added,  bursting  into  tears, 
"that  I  may  not  repay  him  by  doing  him  harm 
to-day."  Under  rigid  questioning  she  testified  that 
the  prisoner  had  told  her  that  his  mission  was  of  a 
delicate  and  difficult  nature  which  made  it  necessary 
for  him  to  travel  under  an  assumed  name. 

Another  witness  testified  to  the  effect  that  the 
prisoner  had  been  seen  in  the  Dover  mail  coach  on 

226 


SYDNEY  CARTON  227 

a  certain  night,  and  that  he  had  got  out  and  trav- 
eled back  some  dozen  miles  to  a  point  where  he  had 
collected  information.  The  prisoner's  counsel  was 
cross-examining  this  last  witness  rather  ineffec- 
tually, when  a  young  lawyer  associated  with  the 
defense  who  had  been  occupied  with  idly  gazing 
at  the  ceiling,  wrote  a  little  note  and  tossed  it  over 
to  him.  Opening  it  and  glancing  at  it,  he  looked 
with  great  attention  and  curiosity  at  the  prisoner. 

"You  say  you  are  quite  sure  it  was  the  prisoner?" 
he  asked  the  witness. 

"Quite  sure." 

"Did  you  ever  see  anybody  very  like  the  pris- 
oner?" 

"Not  so  Hke  that  I  could  be  mistaken." 

"Look  well  upon  that  gentleman,"  pointing  to 
the  lawyer  who  had  thrown  the  note,  "and  then 
look  well  upon  the  prisoner.     What  do  you  say?" 

The  resemblance  was  so  striking  that  the  witness 
was  confounded.  The  defense  took  full  advantage 
of  it,  and  when  at  last  the  jury  concluded  its  delib- 
erations it  returned  a  verdict  of  "Not  guilty." 

As  the  friends  of  Darnay  came  to  congratulate 
him,  not  the  least  interesting  among  them  was  the 
witness  whose  evident  sympathy  had  so  touched 
the  hearts  of  the  spectators.  Miss  Lucie  Manette, 
still  leaning  upon  her  father.  Charles  Darnay 
kissed  her  hand  fervently  and  gratefully.  He  had 
been  deeply  moved  by  her  solicitude  for  him — 
albeit  she  had  done  little  toward  turning  the  tide 
in  his  favor — and  her  joy  in  his  deliverance  was 
16 


228       FIGURES  FAMED   IN   FICTION 

unmistakable.  The  young  lawyer  who  bore  the 
strong  resemblance  to  him  also  approached  with 
extended  hand. 

"My  name  is  Carton,  Mr.  Darnay,  Sydney  Carton. 
It  is  a  strange  chance  that  throws  us  together." 

"I  am  deeply  indebted  to  you,  sir,  and  I  thank 
you,"  returned  Darnay. 

"I  neither  want  any  thanks  nor  merit  any," 
was  the  careless  rejoinder.  "By  the  way,  Mr. 
Darnay,  how  does  it  feel  to  be  restored  to  life?' 

"I  am  confused  as  yet,  but  certainly  life  is  sweet." 

"I  can  hardly  agree  with  you,"  rejoined  Carton 
carelessly.  "The  greatest  desire  I  have  is  to  forget 
that  I  belong  to  this  terrestrial  scheme." 

"And  may  I  ask  w^hy?"  said  Darnay. 

"Come  with  me,  and  I  will  tell  you.  Are  you 
not  hungry?" 

"I  begin  to  think  I  am  faint." 

"Then  why  the  devil  don't  you  dine?  Come;  I 
will  show  you  where  you  may  dine  well." 

"Now,  then,"  said  Carton  when  they  were  seated, 
"as  to  why  I  find  no  pleasure  in  life.  I  am  a  failure, 
sir.  I  am  a  disappointed  drudge.  I  am  likewise 
a  heavy  drinker.  I  care  for  no  man  on  earth,  and 
no  man  on  earth  cares  for  me." 

"That  is  indeed  much  to  be  regretted.  Might 
you  not  have  used  your  talents  better?" 

"Maybe  so,  Mr.  Darnay;  maybe  not.  Don't  let 
your  sober  face  elate  you,  however.  You  have  had 
a  glimpse  of  tragedy  in  your  life,  and  you  may  have 
another.     Who  can  tell?" 


SYDNEY  CARTON  229 

What  Sydney  Carton  had  said  of  himself  was  quite 
true.  Endowed  with  unusual  talent,  he  lacked 
initiative,  was  the  victim  of  drink  in  a  time  when 
heavy  drinking  was  the  custom,  and  was  the  drudge 
of  a  rising  young  lawyer  who  profited  by  employ- 
ing him.  Sometimes  a  fair  vision  rose  before  him 
of  honor,  ambition,  and  success.  But  in  a  moment 
it  was  gone,  and  the  dead,  hard  reality  environed 
him.  Sad  spectacle  for  gods  and  men — a  man  of 
the  noblest  possibilities,  with  such  a  blight  upon 
him,  and  resigning  himself  to  let  it  eat  him  away! 

As  time  went  on,  both  these  young  men  became 
attracted  by  the  charm  of  Lucie  Manette.  Both, 
although  in  different  ways,  perceived  the  beauty  of 
her  character  and  found  pleasure  in  her  society; 
indeed,  they  met  occasionally  under  her  father's 
roof  and  came  to  know  each  other  well.  Charles 
Darnay  confessed  to  himself  that  he  had  never  heard 
a  sound  so  sweet  and  dear  as  the  sound  of  Lucie's 
compassionate  voice  in  the  courtroom;  nay,  that 
he  had  loved  her  from  the  moment  of  her  burst  of 
solicitude  lest  she  bring  harm  to  him  who  had  been 
kind  to  her  and  to  her  father. 

It  was  the  old,  old  story  which  has  repeated 
itself  ever  since  the  days  when  it  was  always  summer 
in  Eden.  With  the  delicate  deference  and  courtesy 
of  a  gentleman,  he  asked  her  father's  leave  to  pay 
his  addresses.  But  while  the  fine  old  man  admired 
him  and  believed  in  him,  yet  there  seemed  to  be 
a  something  in  his  mind  which  was  averse  to  the 
young  man's  suit  and  which  it  was  hard  for  him  to 


230       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

overcome.  He  struggled  with  it  in  a  most  pathetic 
way  while  Darnay,  the  embodiment  of  chivalry, 
waited  and  hoped  and  persuasively  urged  his  suit. 
The  situation  was  sufficiently  tragic,  and  may  be 
partly  understood  by  a  glance  at  the  life  history  of 
the  two  men. 

The  doctor  himself  was  a  Frenchman.  Some 
twenty-five  years  before  he  had  incurred  the  ill 
will  of  certain  nobles,  was  incarcerated  in  the  infa- 
mous Bastille,  and  there  suffered  a  living  death  for 
eighteen  years.  To  be  more  specific,  the  Marquis 
of  Evremonde  and  his  brother — aristocratic,  over- 
bearing, pitiless  in  their  dealings  with  the  peasantry, 
their  dependants — had  outraged  a  lovely  peasant 
girl  and  brought  her  to  her  death.  Her  young 
brother  challenged  and  fought  the  marquis,  and 
fell.  Dr.  Manette,  a  rising  young  physician,  was 
called  in  each  case,  and  came  to  be  distrusted  by 
the  two  noblemen  as  one  who  knew  too  much ;  hence 
his  seizure  and  long  imprisonment. 

Broken  in  health,  a  shadow  of  his  former  self,  he 
at  length  attained  his  freedom,  to  find  that  his 
lovely  English  wife  had  died  of  grief  and  his  daughter 
had  grown  to  womanhood.  The  latter,  small  need 
to  say,  loved  him  with  all  her  soul  and  ministered 
to  him  like  an  angel. 

As  for  the  young  man,  he  was  as  we  have 
already  said,  a  Frenchman,  of  noble  birth,  Charles 
Darnay  being  the  name  he  had  assumed  on  coming 
to  England.  His  real  name  was  none  other  than 
Evremonde,  for,  tragic  and  fateful  in  its  bearing 


SYDNEY  CARTON  231 

upon  his  life  and  happiness,  he  was  the  son  of  the 
brother  already  mentioned  as  bearing  the  hated 
name.  However,  he  had  come  to  see  the  iniquity 
of  his  house  and  had  turned  his  back  upon  it  as 
verily  accursed  of  God.  His  young  heart  went  out 
in  sympathy  toward  the  downtrodden  peasantry, 
albeit  he  was  powerless  to  help  them.  But  their 
wrongs  and  the  wrongs  of  their  brothers  all  over 
France  were  crying  to  heaven  for  vengeance,  and 
the  mills  of  the  gods  were  grinding. 

Something  in  his  features  or  his  carriage,  or  the 
allusions  in  his  conversation  to  his  life  in  France, 
had  led  the  doctor  to  suspect  his  family  connection; 
and  this  it  was  which  threw  a  cloud  over  their 
intercourse  as  Darnay  urged  his  claim.  Suffice  it 
to  say,  however,  that  love  triumphed  in  the  end  and 
the  maiden  herself  was  won. 

It  was  by  no  means  a  strange  thing  that  Sydney 
Carton  had  also  come  under  her  spell,  and  although  he 
professed  the  most  elaborate  indifference,  neverthe- 
less he  was  obliged  to  confess  co  himself  the  sweetness 
of  her  charm.  She  seemed  to  represent  to  him  the  ideal 
realm,  the  vision  of  which  tormented  him  but  into 
which  his  feet  did  not  enter.  Many  a  night  after 
a  senseless  carousal  he  had  haunted  the  street  on 
which  she  lived,  vaguely  thinking  of  her  in  the  same 
way  that  he  did  of  heaven,  as  sweet,  beautiful,  and 
unattainable. 

One  summer  evening  he  called  upon  her  and  found 
her  alone.  A  glance  at  his  face  showed  her  a  change 
in  it. 


232        FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

"I  fear  you  are  not  well,  Mr.  Carton,"  she  said. 

"It  is  true,  but  the  life  I  lead  is  not  conducive  to 
health." 

"Then,"  she  replied,  "forgive  me,  but  why  not 
lead  a  better  life?" 

"It  is  too  late  for  that.  I  shall  sink  still  lower. 
There  is  no  hope!" 

He  said  it  in  a  low  tone,  with  trembling  voice. 
Quickly  glancing  at  him,  she  saw  that  there  were 
tears  in  his  eyes.  She  had  never  seen  him  so  moved, 
and  she  was  touched  with  the  deepest  sympathy. 

"Pray  forgive  me,"  he  continued.  "May  I 
speak  briefly  of  what  is  on  my  mind?" 

"  If  it  will  do  you  any  good,  Mr.  Carton,  I  shall  be 
very  glad  to  listen." 

"God  bless  you  for  your  compassion,"  he  replied. 
"It  is  only  a  word  that  I  wish  to  say.  My  life  has 
been  a  failure,  as  I  said,  but  I  want  you  to  know 
that  you  have  been  the  good  angel  beckoning  me  to 
better  things.     I  shall  never  forget  you." 

She  was  trembling,  and  much  embarrassed,  but 
he  came  to  her  relief. 

"Even  if  it  had  been  possible  for  you  to  have 
returned  the  love  of  the  man  you  see  before  you,  it 
could  not  have  reversed  his  fate;  indeed,  the  chances 
are  that  he  would  have  dragged  you  down  w^ith  him. 
Nevertheless  you  have  been  the  one  vision  of  the 
true  life  which  has  wakened  pure  desires  again  and 
again,  and  I  have  heard  whispers  from  old  voices 
that  I  thought  were  silent  forever.  But  all  in  vain. 
And  I  have  come  here  to  tell  you  this,  so  that  I  may 


SYDNEY  CARTON  233 

have  the  comfort  of  knowing  that  one  soul — the 
one  star  of  my  Hfe — knew  my  story,  and  knew  that 
I  was  not  a  stranger  to  aspiration.  May  I  ask  if 
you  will  regard  this  as  a  sacred  confidence?" 

"If  it  will  be  a  consolation  to  you,  yes."  She 
was  distressed  beyond  measure,  for  she  was  deeply 
interested  in  him.  He. raised  her  hand  to  his  lips 
and  moved  toward  the  door,  while  she  looked  at 
him  through  her  tears. 

"There  is  one  thing  more,"  he  said,  "that  I  would 
like  you  to  know.  For  you  and  those  dear  to  you 
I  would  do  anything,  anything  conceivable  that  a 
man  may  do.  You  have  been  the  one  good  angel 
that  my  poor  life  has  known.  I  entreat  you  to 
believe  me  to  be  sincere  when  I  say  that  for  you  or 
yours  I  would  gladly  give  my  life  if  the  need  should 
ever  arise.  Think  of  this  now  and  then.  Perhaps 
it  will  bring  you  satisfaction  to  know  that  one  soul 
cares  for  you  like  this." 

Could  he  have  dreamed  that  the  words  were 
prophetic?  He  certainly  did  not  as  he  turned  and 
went  his  way. 

The  wedding  day  came,  as  such  days  do,  and  the 
years  went  by.  Charles  Darnay,  renouncing  all 
claim  to  his  ancestral  estates,  founded  as  it  was 
upon  wrongs  that  cried  to  heaven,  lived  on  in  Eng- 
land, supporting  himself  and  his  by  teaching  the 
language  of  which  he  was  a  master.  Children  came 
to  bless  his  home,  and  the  happiness  of  it  all  seemed 
too  good  to  be  real  and  too  great  to  last. 

Sydney  Carton   kept   up  his  acquaintance   with 


234       FIGURES  FAMED   IN   FICTION 

them,  and  at  infrequent  intervals  was  a  guest  in 
their  home.  He  never  came  heated  with  wine  and 
was  always  welcome.  There  was  in  these  visits 
one  notable  feature — his  companionship  with  the 
children.  No  man  ever  really  loved  a  woman,  lost 
her,  and  knew  her  with  a  blameless  though  an 
unchanged  mind  when  she  was  a  wife  and  mother, 
but  her  children  had  a  strange  sympathy  with  him  — 
an  instinctive  delicacy  of  pity  for  him.  What  fine, 
hidden  sensibilities  are  touched  in  such  a  case,  no 
echoes  tell ;  but  it  is  so,  and  it  was  so  here.  Carton 
was  the  first  stranger  to  whom  little  Lucie  held  out 
her  chubby  arms,  and  he  kept  his  place  with  her  as 
she  grew. 

Meanwhile  the  tremendous  storm  which  was  to 
burst  upon  France  was  gathering.  The  pitiless, 
accursed  despotism  that  had  taken  the  bread  from 
the  himgry  thousands  while  itself  reveling  in  luxury, 
began  to  see  the  handwriting  on  the  wall.  The 
Third  Estate,  the  downtrodden,  starving,  maddened 
multitude,  was  boiling  and  seething  in  its  fury  like 
the  ocean  in  a  storm.  The  vortex  of  the  storm  was 
the  Faubourg  Saint  Antoine.  Not  far  from  the 
palaces  and  boulevards  of  Paris  lay  the  narrow, 
crooked,  dirty  streets  and  the  squalid  huts  of  poverty. 
A  tide  of  frantic  humanity  rose  in  a  storm  of  blind, 
convulsive,  senseless  protest  against  the  brutal 
reign  of  the  Devil,  surnamed  the  Privileged  Orders. 
The  storm  had  been  long  in  coming.  Knots  of 
hungry  men  would  gather  on  the  street  in  violent 
and  futile  imprecation. 


SYDNEY  CARTON  235 

The  wine  shop  of  one  Defarge  was  a  veritable 
hotbed  of  sedition,  Madame  Defarge  its  presiding 
genius,  another  Lady  Macbeth,  nerving  her  husband 
to  the  bloody  work  which  she  meant  should  come 
if  such  a  consummation  lay  within  the  power  of 
man.  Her  motive  in  all  this — deadly  and  relentless 
—  lay  in  the  woman's  history.  She  belonged  to 
the  very  peasant  family  so  cruelly  outraged  by  the 
Marquis  of  Evremonde.  Her  own  sister  and  brother 
had  been  sent  to  their  last  sleep  by  him;  and  he 
and  his  kind  were  written  down  in  her  book  of  fate 
and  vengeance.  One  of  her  emissaries  had  already 
driven  a  dagger  to  its  home  in  his  heart,  and  others 
at  her  bidding  had  burned  his  magnificent  chateau. 
But  this  was  only  the  beginning.  His  kind  wherever 
found, — the  devil's  own  brood,  the  accursed,  the 
damnable,  the  doomed, — were  all  in  her  book  of 
vengeance. 

And  now  the  storm  so  long  brewing  had  come. 
Saint  Antoine,  on  one  memorable  July  morning 
in  the  year  of  our  Lord  seventeen  hundred  eighty- 
nine,  became  a  vast,  dusky  mass  of  scarecrows. 
Weapons  gleamed  in  the  sun,  and  a  forest  of  naked 
arms  struggled  in  the  air.  A  tremendous  roar 
arose  from  the  throat  of  Saint  Antoine,  fit  expression 
of  its  fevered  pulse  and  demented  brain.  Defarge 
himself,  begrimed  with  gunpowder  and  sweat, — 
Madame  at  his  side,  an  ax  in  her  hand, — appeared 
as  the  leader. 

"Come,  then!"  he  cried.  "Patriots  and  friends, 
we  are  ready !    The  Bastille ! ' ' 


236       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

And  with  alarm  bells  ringing,  drums  beating,  guns 
booming,  and  the  roar  from  the  throat  of  Saint 
Antoine,  the  attack  began.  Deep  ditches,  double 
drawbridge,  massive  stone  walls,  eight  great  towers, 
fire  and  gunpowder  and  blinding  smoke — mad  with 
fury,  Saint  Antoine  smote  upon  it  like  the  waves  of 
the  sea.  How  this  grim  symbol  of  oppression  went 
down  before  the  maddened  fury  of  that  great  throng 
is  matter  of  history. 

Defarge  was  possessed  by  a  burning  desire  to 
examine  the  cell  number  One  Hundred  and  Five, 
North  Tower.  He  had  learned  in  some  way  that 
one  Dr.  Manette,  whom  he  knew  well,  had  been 
confined  there.  He  searched  the  damp,  dark  cell, 
the  lurid  torches  flashing  here  and  there.  The 
initials  "A.  M."  were  revealed,  cut  in  the  stone. 
"Alexandre  Manette!"  shouted  Defarge.  "Here 
the  devils  who  are  already  damned  held  him  in 
chains  for  eighteen  years."  With  a  crowbar  he 
tore  down  the  stones.  One  after  another  they 
yielded  to  his  fury  until,  embedded  in  the  wall,  he 
discovered  a  written  document,  of  which  more 
hereafter. 

But  this  day's  work,  furious  though  it  was,  even 
to  madness,  was  only  the  beginning.  That  epoch 
in  history  known  as  the  Reign  of  Terror  was  ushered 
in.  "Liberty,  Fraternity,  Equality — or  Death!" 
was  the  watchword,  and  to  be  suspected  of  dis- 
loyalty to  the  republic — that  is  to  say,  to  the  mob  — 
was  to  die. 

One  night  Darnay  received  a  letter  which  turned 


SYDNEY  CARTON  237 

the  current  of  his  Hfe.  His  trusted  servant,  Gabelle, 
whom  he  had  left  in  charge  of  the  estates,  had  been 
seized  by  the  mob  and  imprisoned,  Ahhough  he 
had  dealt  generously  with  the  tenantry — following 
Darnay's  instructions — still  the  fact  that  he  was 
known  to  be  the  agent  of  an  emigrant  was  sufficient 
to  inflame  the  senseless  populace  against  him;  and 
now,  in  prison,  awaiting  his  death,  he  sent  the  most 
impassioned  entreaty  for  his  master  to  come  to  his 
rescue. 

"For  the  love  of  Heaven,  of  generosity,  of  the 
honor  of  your  noble  name,"  was  the  appeal.  It  was 
irresistible.  All  that  was  honorable  and  manly 
in  Darnay  responded  to  it,  and  his  resolution  was 
taken.  He  would  go  to  Paris,  right  the  wrong,  and 
save  from  death  an  innocent,  loyal  servant.  For 
he  did  not  seriously  doubt  that  the  dread  tribunal 
would  listen  to  reason  and  refrain  from  slaughtering 
its  friends. 

There  was  no  time  to  be  lost.  That  night  he 
wrote  two  letters — one  to  his  wife,  the  other  to  her 
father — stating  his  imperative  reasons  for  going 
and  also  his  full  belief  that  it  involved  no  personal 
danger.  He  could  not  trust  himself  to  say  a  per- 
sonal good-by  to  his  loved  ones,  anticipating  their 
pleadings  with  him  to  forego  his  perilous  journey 
and  fearing  their  importunity. 

From  the  moment  of  his  arrival  upon  French  soil 
he  came  under  suspicion.  He  was  awakened  at  an 
inn  about  midnight  by  three  armed  patriots  in  red 
caps. 


238       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

"Emigrant,  we  are  going  to  send  you  to  Paris 
under  an  escort." 

"Citizens,"  replied  Damay,  "I  desire  nothing 
more  than  to  get  to  Paris,  though  I  could  dispense 
with  an  escort." 

"Silence!"  growled  a  red-cap,  striking  the  bed 
with  the  butt  end  of  his  musket.  "Peace,  aris- 
tocrat! You  must  have  an  escort,  and  must  pay 
for  it." 

Into  the  wet  night  they  went,  forging  onward 
toward  Paris.  Arrived  at  Beauvais,  a  crowd  had 
gathered  and  voices  called  out,  "Down  with  the 
emigrant!    To  hell  with  the  aristocrat!" 

' '  My  friends,  I  am  here  of  my  own  free  will.  I  am 
the  friend  of  the  people.   Why  should  you  curse  me  ? ' ' 

"Why?  Because  the  emigrants  belong  to  the 
devil.  Because  there  is  a  decree  confiscating  all 
their  property  and  condemning  to  death  all  emi- 
grants who  return.     That  is  why." 

Early  one  morning  they  arrived  before  the  walls 
of  Paris.  "Citizen  Defarge,"  said  the  registrar 
to  Darnay's  conductor,  "is  this  the  emigrant 
Evremonde?" 

"This  is  the  man." 

"Evremonde,  you  are  consigned  to  the  prison  of 
La  Force." 

* '  Just  Heaven ! ' '  exclaimed  Darnay .  ' '  Under  what 
law,  and  for  what  offense?" 

"We  have  new  laws  and  new  offenses  since  you 
were  here."  He  said  it  with  a  hard  smile,  and  went 
on  writing. 


SYDNEY  CARTON  239 

"But  surely  I  have  the  right  to  be  heard?" 

"Emigrants  have  no  rights,"  was  the  stoHd  answer. 

"Is  it  you,"  said  Defarge  in  a  low  voice  as  they 
went  down  the  guardhouse  steps,  "who  married 
the  daughter  of  Dr.  Manette,  once  a  prisoner  in  the 
Bastille?" 

"Yes,"  said  Darnay,  looking  at  him  in  surprise. 

"By  heavens,  man,  in  the  name  of  that  sharp 
female,  newly  born  and  called  La  Guillotine,  why 
did  you  come  to  France?" 

"You  heard  me  say  why,  a  minute  ago.  Did  you 
not  believe  me?" 

"I  believe  nothing." 

"Citizen  Defarge,  I  have  a  friend  here  in  the  city. 
Will  you  inform  him  that  I  have  been  thrown  into 
the  prison  of  La  Force,  simply  that  fact,  with  no 
comment?" 

"I  will  do  nothing  for  you,"  was  the  grim  reply. 
"My  duty  is  to  the  people." 

In  the  English  home  which  Darnay  had  left,  it  is 
needless  to  say  that  grief  and  consternation  reigned. 
Small  need  to  say,  also,  that  his  wife  and  her  father 
followed  him  to  France  without  delay. 

Dr.  Manette  was  confident  that  his  tragic  history 
would  appeal  irresistibly  to  Saint  Antoine.  "My 
dear  child,"  said  he,  "I  have  been  a  Bastille 
prisoner.  I  have  suffered  for  the  cause.  There  is 
no  patriot  in  Paris  who  would  not  carry  me  in  tri- 
umph. I  am  sure  I  can  save  your  husband.  They 
will  grant  me  anything  I  may  ask  them." 

While  his  appeal  to  the  tribunal  was  not  in  vain  — 


240       FIGURES  FAMED   IN   FICTION 

they  remembered  him  and  revered  him — still  the 
only  satisfaction  he  could  gain  was  this,  that  Darnay 
should  be  held  inviolate  in  safe  custody. 

The  days  and  the  weeks  and  the  months  went 
by,  while  the  awful  work  of  death  went  on.  The 
black  flag  waved  night  and  day  from  the  great  towers 
of  Notre  Dame.  Night  and  day  the  dread  tribunal 
and  the  guillotine  did  their  awful  work.  The 
tumbrils  carried  their  loads  of  precious  lives  to 
the  place  where  the  remorseless  knife  was  waiting. 
There  was  no  pause,  no  pity,  no  peace,  no  interval 
of  relenting  rest,  no  measurement  of  time.  The 
king,  the  queen,  the  bravest  and  the  fairest  fed  the 
raging  fever  of  the  nation. 

The  day  came  at  last  when  the  name  was  read  out 
before  the  tribunal  — ' '  Charles  Evremonde,  called 
Darnay." 

The  case  was  rapidly  reviewed.  Darnay  avowed 
himself  a  friend  of  the  people,  the  reason  for  his 
exile  being  that  he  could  not  and  would  not  live 
by  oppression  of  the  people.  He  had  married  the 
daughter  of  the  hero  of  the  Bastille,  Dr.  Manette, 
there  present  and  known  to  them  all.  The  doctor 
himself  was  next  questioned.  He  declared  that 
Darnay  was  his  faithful  friend  in  his  misfortune  since 
his  liberation  and  that  he,  Darnay,  had  been  actually 
tried  for  his  life  as  the  foe  of  the  aristocratic  govern- 
ment of  England.  The  doctor's  distinguished  bear- 
ing and  his  reputation  as  the  martyr  of  the  Bastille 
gave  weight  to  his  words.  The  jury  declared  they 
had    heard    enough,    the   populace    shouting    their 


SYDNEY  CARTON  241 

approval.  Every  juryman  voted  for  acquittal,  and 
the  president  declared  him  free. 

His  wife  had  awaited  the  result  in  her  rooms. 
And  although  her  father  had  gone  before  to  prepare 
her,  yet  when  her  husband  stood  before  her,  she 
fell  insensible  in  his  arms.  Dr.  Manette  was  proud 
of  his  triumph. 

"I  have  saved  him!  No  other  man  in  France 
could  have  done  it  in  the  face  of  that  fever  for 
blood;  but  they  needs  must  listen  to  the  martyr  of 
the  Bastille." 

Charles  Darnay  was  saved.  And  yet  a  vague 
and  heavy  fear  was  upon  the  mind  of  his  loving  wife. 
Overwrought  by  the  tense  strain,  she  started  at  every 
sudden  noise.  The  group  was  sitting  by  the  fireside 
when  there  came  a  heavy  knock  upon  the  door,  and 
four  armed  men  in  red  caps  entered  the  room. 

"Citizen  Evremonde,  called  Darnay,  "you  are 
again  the  prisoner  of  the  republic." 

"And  may  I  ask  the  reason?"  said  Darnay. 

"You  are  denounced  by  citizen  and  citizeness 
Defarge,  and  by  one  other." 

"And  who  is  that  other?"  asked  Dr.  Manette. 

"Do  you  ask,  citizen  Doctor?" 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"Then,"  said  the  guard  with  a  strange  look,  "you 
will  be  answered  to-morrow.     To-day  I  am  dumb." 

We  may  be  very  sure  that  these  proceedings  in 
Paris  —  including  the  long  imprisonment  of  Darnay 
—  were  not  unknown  to  Sydney  Carton.  Far  away 
in  England  he  had  carefully  watched  and  waited. 


242       FIGURES  FAMED  IN  FICTION 

Uncertain  of  the  final  issue,  he  was  drawn  at  last 
by  the  one  magnet  of  his  life  to  Paris,  thinking  that 
he  might  be  useful — how  he  could  not  imagine. 

One  day  he  was  idly  gazing  upon  the  walls  of  the 
Conciergerie,  through  whose  doors  so  many  had 
passed  to  the  scafTold,  when  he  noted  one  of  the 
turnkeys  leaving  the  prison.  Struck  with  the  face 
of  the  man  —  Carton  had  a  good  memory  for  faces  — 
he  followed  him.  The  man  entered  the  wine  shop 
of  Defarge,  Carton  close  behind  him.  It  appeared 
to  be  somewhat  clear — and  it  grew  clearer  as  he 
watched  his  man — that  although  ostensibly  serving 
the  republic,  he  was,  probably,  a  spy  in  the  pay  of 
the  English  government.  Carton  remembered  hav- 
ing seen  him  in  London,  and  even  recalled  the  name 
by  which  he  was  known  there. 

From  the  talk  in  the  wine  shop  Carton  learned 
that  Darnay  had  been  rearrested.  He  knew  enough 
of  the  spirit  of  the  dread  tribunal  to  fear  the  worst. 
Events  were  swiftly  coming  to  a  crisis — the  crisis 
of  fate;  and  a  purpose,  together  with  a  plan  of 
action,  gradually  shaped  itself  in  his  mind. 

He  accosted  his  man  upon  the  street.  "Mon- 
sieur Barsad,  may  I  have  a  little  chat  with  you?  I 
take  a  deep  interest  in  gentlemen  of  your  profession." 

The  man  started,  and  his  pale  face  turned  paler. 
"What,  sir,  do  you  dare  insinuate — " 

"I  can  hardly  explain  here  on  the  street.  Will 
you  do  me  the  favor  to  step  into  the  office  of  a  friend 
of  mine?" 

"Why  should  I  do  so,  pray?" 


SYDNEY  CARTON  243 

"Really,  Mr.  Barsad,  I  can't  say,  if  you  can't." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  won't  say,  sir?"  the  man 
irresolutely  asked. 

"You  apprehend  me  very  clearly,  my  friend.  I 
won't."  His  negligent  recklessness  of  manner  in- 
vested the  speaker  with  an  air  of  mystery.  He 
saw  his  advantage,  and  used  it. 

"Well,  my  friend,  do  you  come  with  me?" 

"Yes,  yes;  I'll  hear  what  you've  got  to  say." 

"Now,  then,  my  man,"  said  Carton  when  they 
were  seated,  "here's  a  game  I  shall  be  interested  to 
play  with  you.  The  stake  I  propose  to  play  for 
is  a  friend  in  the  Conciergerie,  and  that  friend  is 
yourself." 

"You  need  have  good  cards,"  said  the  spy. 

"Let  me  see  what  I  hold,"  returned  Carton. 
"I'll  run  them  over.  Mr.  Barsad,  spy  and  secret 
informer,  working  under  a  false  name;  that's  a  good 
card.  Mr.  Barsad,  actually  in  the  employ  of  the 
aristocratic  English  government,  the  enemy  of 
France  and  freedom;  that's  a  card  not  to  be  beaten. 
Have  you  followed  my  hand,  sir?" 

"Not  to  understand  your  play,"  returned  the 
spy,  somewhat  uneasily. 

"I  play  my  ace,  denunciation  of  Mr.  Barsad  to 
the  nearest  Section  Committee.     What  do  you  say  ? " 

The  spy  was  astounded.  He  knew  too  well  that 
a  word  would  seal  his  fate,  for  to  be  suspected  was  to 
die.  So  he  simply  said  with  a  stolid  air,  "What 
do  you  want  with  me?" 

"You  are  a  turnkey  of  the  Conciergerie?" 
16 


244       FIGURES  FAMED   IN   FICTION 

"I  tell  you,  once  for  all,  there  is  no  such  thing 
possible  as  effecting  the  escape  of  a  prisoner." 

"I  am  not  discussing  that,  if  you  please.  I 
simply  propose  that  you  give  me  access  to  one  of 
the  prisoners,  one  Evremonde,  at  such  time  as  I 
may  choose." 

"But  that  will  not  help  him." 

"I  am  not  saying  that  it  would,"  was  the  reply. 

The  wretch  saw  with  the  certainty  of  fate  that 
the  alternative  was  denunciation  to  the  Committee, 
which  was  another  way  of  spelling  death,  and  he 
gave  his  consent. 

That  night  Sydney  Carton  wandered  through 
the  streets.  "There  is  nothing  more  to  do  until 
to-morrow,"  he  said  to  himself,  "and  I  can't  sleep." 
He  said  it  with  the  air  of  a  tired  man  who  had 
wandered  and  struggled,  but  who  at  length  saw 
the  last  reaches  of  his  journey.  His  steps  almost 
unconsciously  tended  toward  the  temporary  abode 
of  the  one  who  was  uppermost  in  his  thoughts.  As 
he  approached  the  gateway  he  said  to  himself, 
"She  must  have  trod  on  these  stones  often."  The 
one  holy  passion  of  his  life  still  wrought  in  his  soul. 
And  he  wandered  on. 

As  he  went  down  the  dark  streets  amid  the  heavy 
shadows,  with  the  moon  and  the  clouds  sailing  on 
high  above  him,  he  recalled  the  solemn  words  which 
had  been  read  years  ago  at  his  father's  grave, — "I 
am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life,  saith  the  Lord." 
Over  and  over  in  his  brain  sounded  the  same  solemn 
music, — "I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life." 


SYDNEY  CARTON  245 

Day  came  at  length,  and  he  went  to  the  place  of 
trial.  Dr.  Manette  was  there.  She  was  there  also, 
the  angel  of  his  life,  and  he  gazed  upon  her  face 
unrebuked  from  his  place  among  the  spectators. 
When  her  husband  was  brought  in  she  turned  upon 
him  a  look  so  sustaining,  so  encouraging,  so  full  of 
admiring  love  and  pitying  tenderness,  yet  so  coura- 
geous for  his  sake,  that  it  brought  a  flush  into  his 
cheek  and  a  light  into  his  eye.  And — shall  we  call 
it  strange? — it  did  the  same  thing  for  Sydney 
Carton. 

The  case  was  called.  "Charles  Evremonde,  called 
Darnay,  openly  denounced  as  a  traitor  to  the 
republic." 

"By  whom?"  was  the  question. 

"By  Alexandre  Manette,  physician." 

It  was  like  a  thunderbolt  from  the  blue.  There 
was  a  great  uproar,  but  the  doctor  made  himself 
heard.  He  indignantly  protested  that  it  was  a 
forgery  and  a  fraud. 

With  a  grim  smile,  the  president  of  the  tribunal 
exclaimed,  "Citizen  Manette,  be  silent  and  listen." 

The  testimony  that  followed  was  astounding. 
Defarge,  being  brought  forward,  testified  to  his 
part  in  the  destruction  of  the  Bastille  and  to  his 
discovery  in  the  walls  of  the  cell  known  as  One  Hun- 
dred and  Five,  North  Tower,  of  a  written  paper. 
This  paper  was  an  account,  penned  in  his  captivity 
by  one  Alexandre  Manette,  of  the  cruel  things  that 
had  brought  him  to  that  living  death  and  had  kept 
him  there  for  eighteen  years.     It  was  a  simple, 


246       FIGURES  FAMED   IN   FICTION 

terrible,  heart-rending  story,  and  it  concluded  with 
a  blasting  curse  upon  the  house  of  Evremonde. 
"Them  and  their  descendants,  to  the  very  last  of 
their  race,  I,  Alexandre  Manette,  in  my  unbearable 
agony,  do  denounce  before  high  Heaven." 

The  effect  was  simply  overwhelming.  The  awful 
story  called  into  full  play  the  worst  passions  of  that 
frenzied  assize,  and  Darnay's  fate  was  sealed. 
Back  to  the  Conciergerie,  and  death  within  twenty- 
four  hours ! 

The  wretched  wife  of  the  doomed  man  fell  under 
the  sentence  as  if  she  had  been  mortally  stricken. 
Then,  issuing  from  his  obscure  corner,  Sydney  Car- 
ton came  and  took  her  up. 

"Shall  I  take  her  to  a  coach?"  he  asked  her 
father.     "I  would  be  glad  to  serve  her." 

He  carried  her  tenderly  to  a  conveyance,  assisting 
her  poor  father  to  a  seat  beside  her.  Arrived  at  her 
home — at  the  very  gateway  where  he  had  paused 
not  many  hours  before  to  picture  to  himself  on  which 
of  the  rough  stones  of  the  street  her  feet  had  trodden 
—  he  lifted  her  again,  and  carried  her  up  the  stair- 
case to  her  rooms. 

"Do  not  recall  her  to  herself,"  he  said  softly. 
"It  is  better  so." 

"Oh,  Carton,  Carton,  dear  Carton!"  cried  the 
child  Lucie,  throwing  her  arms  around  him  in  a 
burst  of  grief.  "Now  that  you  have  come  I  know 
you  will  do  something  to  help  us.  Oh,  look  at  her, 
dear  Carton!  Can  you,  of  all  the  people  who  love 
her,  bear  to  see  her  so?" 


SYDNEY  CARTON  247 

He  patted  the  child,  and  pressed  her  blooming 
cheek  against  his  face.  He  put  her  gently  from 
him,  and  looked  at  her  unconscious  mother, 

"Before  I  go,"  he  said,  and  paused — "I  may 
kiss  her?" 

It  was  remembered  afterwards  that  when  he  bent 
down  and  touched  her  face  with  his  lips,  he  mur- 
mured something.  Little  Lucie  heard  the  words, 
and  told  them  afterwards  to  her  grandchildren  when 
she  herself  was  a  beautiful  old  lady.  She  said 
they  were  these,  —  "A  life  you  love." 

Very  early  the  next  morning  Sydney  Carton  called 
upon  Dr.  Manette.  The  man  was  nearly  crazed 
with  grief  and  consternation. 

"My  dear  friend,"  said  Carton,  "I  do  not  dis- 
guise it  from  you  nor  from  myself;  there  is  no  hope. 
Still  I  am  going  myself  to  the  prison  to  make  one 
effort  more.  But  before  I  go  I  have  one  request  to 
make.  Do  not  ask  my  reasons  for  it;  they  are 
good  ones." 

"And  what  may  this  request  be?" 

"It  is  this.  Here  is  my  passport  to  England." 
He  produced  a  paper  from  his  pocket.  "Will  you 
keep  it  for  me  until  to-morrow?  And  one  thing 
more.  Will  you  see  to  it  that  preparations  are  made 
for  us  all  to  leave  Paris  to-morrow  morning?" 

Having  done  whatever  might  be  done  to  make 
effective  the  thing  which  he  had  planned,  he  turned 
with  a  firm  step  toward  the  black  prison  where  the 
doomed  for  the  day  awaited  their  fate. 

Charles  Darnay,  alone  in  his  cell,  was  under  no 


24S       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

illusions  as  to  his  fate.  He  fully  understood  that 
no  personal  influence  could  possibly  save  him.  His 
hold  on  life  was  strong,  and  it  was  immeasurably 
strengthened  by  the  vision  of  his  beloved  one  ever 
before  him.  Still  the  assurance  that  there  was 
no  disgrace  in  his  fate,  and  that  many  noble  souls 
had  trod  the  way  bravely  before  him,  came  to  him 
with  its  inspirations. 

The  time  was  approaching  for  the  dread  summons. 
A  key  was  put  in  the  lock  and  turned.  The  door 
opened,  and  closed  quickly.  And  there  stood  before 
him,  with  the  light  of  a  smile  upon  his  face,  none 
other  than  Sydney  Carton. 

"Of  all  persons  in  the  world,  you  least  expected 
to  see  me?"  he  said. 

"I  can  hardly  believe  my  senses!  You  are  not 
a — prisoner?" 

"No;  I  happen  to  have  some  power  over  one  of 
the  keepers  here.  I  come  from  her,  your  wife,  and 
I  bring  you  a  request  from  her." 

"Ah!  My  wife,  my  wife!  What  message  does 
she  send?" 

"It  is  a  very  urgent  request,  and  you  must  not 
ask  me  the  reason.  First,  take  off  those  boots  you 
wear  and  draw  on  these  of  mine." 

He  had  already  pressed  Darnay  into  a  chair,  and 
his  own  boots  were  removed. 

"But,  Carton!  There  is  no  escaping  from  this 
place.     You  will  only  die  with  me.     It  is  madness." 

"But  I  am  not  asking  you  to  escape.  When  I 
do  you  may  talk  of  madness.     Here,  change  your 


SYDNEY  CARTON  249 

coat  for  this  of  mine.  Quick!  Lose  no  time!  It 
is  her  request,  you  know." 

When  his  clothing  had  been  changed  the  final 
act  began.  "Here  are  pen,  ink,  and  paper.  Steady 
your  hand  and  write  at  my  dictation." 

What  was  written  is  of  no  consequence.  But 
Carton,  taking  his  hand  from  his  breast  pocket, 
moved  it  slowly  down  close  to  the  writer's  face; 
and  still  the  dictation  continued.  The  pen  dropped 
absently  from  his  fingers. 

"What  vapor  is  that?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  nothing.  Go  on."  And  again  the  writing 
was  resumed,  and  the  narcotic  fumes  increased. 

Suddenly  the  prisoner  sprang  up  with  a  reproachful 
look,  but  Carton's  hand  was  firm  at  his  nostrils, 
and  after  a  feeble  struggle  he  lay  unconscious. 
Quickly  dressing  himself  in  the  prisoner's  clothing. 
Carton  called  softly,  "Come  in."  The  spy  pre- 
sented himself. 

"You  see!"  said  Carton.  "Is  your  hazard  very 
great?" 

"Not  if  you  will  be  true  to  your  bargain." 

"Never  fear.  I  will  be  true  to  the  death.  Now 
take  this  man  out.  The  open  air  will  soon  revive 
him.  Get  some  help,  and  take  him  out.  I  was 
faint  when  you  brought  me  in,  you  remember,  and  the 
parting  interviev*^  has  overpowered  me.   Quick,  now ! ' ' 

The  jailer  withdrew,  and  Carton  seated  himself 
at  the  table,  resting  his  forehead  in  his  hands. 
Returning  with  two  men,  the  jailer  removed  the 
fallen  man. 


250       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

"The  time  is  short,  Evremonde!"  he  said  in  a 
warning  voice. 

"I  know  it  well,"  was  the  answer.  "Be  careful 
of  my  friend,  and  leave  me." 

It  was  not  long  before  the  words  rang  out,  "Evre- 
monde, called  Darnay!" 

It  was  the  note  of  doom. 

Assembled  with  the  condemned,  and  waiting  for 
the  tumbrils,  a  slight  girlish  form  approached  him. 

"Citizen  Evremonde,"  she  said,  "I  was  with  you 
in  La  Force.  I  heard  you  were  released.  I  hoped 
it  was  true." 

"It  was;  but  I  was  again  taken  and  condemned." 

Just  then  the  bright  eyes  examined  his  face  more 
closely.  He  saw  a  sudden  doubt  in  them,  and  then 
astonishment. 

"Are  you  dying  for  him?"  she  whispered. 

"And  for  his  wife  and  child.     Hush!     Yes." 

"Oh,  will  you  let  me  hold  your  brave  hand, 
stranger?     It  will  give  me  courage." 

"Yes,  my  poor  girl;  to  the  last." 

They  are  in  the  death-carts  on  the  way  to  the 
guillotine.  Six  tumbrils  carry  this  day's  sacrifice. 
We  give  them  one  long  look,  deploring  the  madness 
of  the  time,  then  drop  the  curtain  and  turn  away. 

"I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life,  saith  the 
Lord!"  And  we  lift  the  curtain  on  the  confines 
of  the  eternal  shore. 

A  carriage  waited  at  the  Barrier. 
"Papers!"  was  the  demand. 


SYDNEY  CARTON  251 

"Alexandre  Manette,  physician,  Lucie  his  daugh- 
ter, wife  of  Evremonde.  Lucie,  her  child.  Sydney 
Carton,  Advocate,  English.  Which  is  he?  Ill,  is  he 
not?" 

"He  is.  He  has  just  separated  from  a  friend  who 
is  under  the  displeasure  of  the  republic." 

"Is  that  all?  It  is  not  a  great  deal,  that."  The 
papers  are  countersigned. 

"Forward,  postillions!" 

And  after  days  and  nights  of  racking  anxiety,  the 
blessed  shores  of  England  are  underneath  their 
feet.  Amid  the  strange,  strange  emotions  that 
possess  them,  there  lives  this  strong,  engrossing, 
moving  thing,  namely:  that  one  human  being 
deliberately  laid  down  his  life  that  another  might 
live  and  love.  And  the  sacredness  of  it,  and  the 
greatness,  do  not  abate  as  the  years  go  by. 


CLEMENT  VAUGHN 

T  TE  came  from  England  to  a  mining  town  in 
-*-  ■*■  Nevada.  His  figure,  his  manner,  his  air  un- 
mistakably indicated  the  gentleman,  while  his  soft, 
lustrous  eye  and  his  sensitive  mouth  and  nostril 
made  one  think  him  a  poet,  one  knew  not  why. 
Educated  to  be  a  preacher  in  the  Wesleyan  connec- 
tion, he  had  been  tormented  with  doubt  as  to  his 
fitness  for  the  work,  and  an  unhappy  marriage  had 
made  everything  harder.  His  wife,  frivolous,  un- 
sympathetic, and  opposed  to  his  work,  intensified 
his  self -distrust  as  he  thought  of  his  holy  calling. 
His  health  had  failed,  and  an  urgent  summons  from 
his  sister  in  Nevada  had  brought  him  here.  And 
now  the  dearest  wish  of  her  heart  for  him  —  that 
he  might  continue  in  the  work  which  two  years 
before  he  had  so  earnestly  begun  —  was  to  be  grati- 
fied. The  superintendent  of  Home  Missions  had 
appointed  him  to  the  little  chiirch  in  the  godless 
mining  town  of  Eureka. 

Jack  Perry  stood  in  the  door  of  his  saloon  and 
looked  up  the  street,  swearing  softly  at  what  he 
saw.  Jack  was  not  a  man  to  swear  volubly  and 
exuberantly  on  every  slight  occasion.  When  he 
swore  it  was  with  much  definiteness  and  because 
the  occasion  demanded  it.  What  he  saw  was 
the  open  door  of  the  unused  church  a  little  dis- 
tance away,  and  a  slender  figure  in  dark  clothing 

252 


CLEMENT  VAUGHN  253 

taking  certain  articles  of  furniture  in  at  the  rear 
door. 

"I'll  be  blanked,"  said  Jack,  "if  he  ain't  settin' 
up  housekeeping  right  in  the  shop.  Looks  as  if  he 
means  to  stay  with  it." 

And  so  he  did.  It  was  a  measure  of  economy — 
this  taking  up  his  quarters  there  —  and  it  also  served 
to  identify  him  with  the  church;  he  thus  seemed  to 
himself  to  cast  in  his  lot  with  it.  Having  chosen 
his  work  here,  he  went  into  it  with  characteristic 
abandon.  It  was,  indeed,  discouraging  enough  at 
the  first;  ten  persons  in  the  congregation  the  first 
Sunday,  and  twelve  the  second.  This  would  never 
do.  He  must  advertise.  Going  over  to  the  saloon, 
he  inquired  for  the  proprietor.  Jack  Perry  appeared, 
six  feet  four,  heavy  shoulders,  square  jaw,  firm 
mouth,  and  steel-gray  eyes.  Years  ago  he  had 
been  sheriff  in  Virginia  City,  where  it  was  necessary 
to  shoot  a  man  occasionally  to  save  the  lives  of  the 
rest.     He  was  a  born  master  of  men. 

"I'm  Vaughn,  the  new  preacher,"  said  our  hero, 
holding  out  his  hand.  "I  came  to  ask  if  there  is 
any  objection  to  my  posting  a  little  notice  in  your 
place,  inviting  men  to  church." 

Jack's  eyes  twinkled.  "I  ain't  never  advertised 
your  kind  of  wares;  they  most  generally  conflict 
with  mine." 

"But  everybody  comes  here,  and  it  would  do  no 
harm  for  a  few  of  them  to  come  over  to  church, 
once  in  a  while." 

"Certain!  'T won't  hurt  'em."     And  there  was  a 


254       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

whimsical  light  in  Jack's  gray  eyes  as  Vaughn  has- 
tened home  to  prepare  the  notice. 

"Wat  is  it?"  asked  Mat  Kyle,  the  sheriff. 

"Wants  to  advertise  his  gospel  shop  in  my  saloon. 
Sent  here  by  the  missionary  folks  to  spile  my  busi- 
ness, and  will  I  help  him  do  it!" 

"Gall!"  said  the  other. 

"Never  mind!  Let  him  work,  let  him  work! 
Let's  see  what '11  happen." 

Just  as  Vaughn,  returning  with  the  notice,  had 
tacked  it  up  below  a  flaming  advertisement  of  High- 
land Whisky,  there  was  a  sound  in  the  street  of  the 
lowing  of  cattle,  and  the  muffled  tread  of  a  hundred 
of  them,  and  then  the  cry  of  a  child. 

They  rushed  to  the  door.  Down  the  road  from 
the  Geiger  Grade  poured  a  mass  of  shaggy  heads 
and  tossing  horns. 

' '  Good  God !    Look  at  that ! "  cried  Mat  Kyle. 

Right  in  the  path  of  the  furious  herd  a  little  girl 
on  a  tricycle  was  doing  her  futile  best  to  get  out  of 
the  way,  while  the  maid-servant  was  frightened  and 
useless.  The  men  sprang  forward,  but  Vaughn  was 
there  before  them.  Snatching  the  child  from  death, 
he  bore  her  to  the  sidewalk. 

Although  uninjured,  Miss  Elsie  clung  to  him. 

"I '11  carry  her  home,"  said  Vaughn  to  the  servant. 
"Where  do  you  live?" 

* '  On  Richmond  Hill,  sor.   'Tis  too  far  to  carry  her. ' ' 

"Well,  I'll  at  least  carry  her  a  little  way." 

As  they  walked  on,  he  learned  that  Mrs.  Chis- 
holm,  Elsie's  mother,  lived  in  the  big  house  on  the 


CLEMENT  VAUGHN  255 

hill  with  her  brother's  family,  that  Mr.  Chisholm 
had  died  the  year  before,  and  that  after  traveling 
for  some  months  with  her  elfin  daughter,  her  mistress 
had  settled  down  in  Eureka. 

"She  owns  one  half  of  the  Richmond  mine,  and 
her  brother  owns  the  other  half.  Oh,  but  when  she 
sees  us  coming  like  this  she  will  think  something 
awful  has  happened!    There  she  comes  now." 

A  charming  figure  came  slowly  down  the  steps  of 
the  mansion,  but,  catching  sight  of  the  party,  came 
on  hurriedly. 

"What  is  it,  Elsie,  dearest?    Are  you  hurt?" 

Nora  protested  that  she  was  not,  and  appealed 
to  Vaughn. 

"She  has  been  badly  frightened,  madam;  that  is 
all,"  said  Vaughn,  removing  his  hat. 

The  lady  looked  at  him  with  slow,  curious  gaze. 
She  was  evidently  pleased  with  what  she  saw.  The 
rescue  was  briefly  told. 

She  extended  a  firm,  white  hand  and  smiled  as 
she  said,  "You  will  let  me  thank  you  with  all  my 
heart.  I  am  very,  very  grateful,  and  can  never, 
never  repay  you." 

Vaughn  declined  a  pressing  invitation  to  come  in, 
an  invitation  which  Elsie  seconded  most  earnestly. 

"Not  to-day,  thank  you,  my  little  friend.  Some 
other  day,"  said  he,  as  she  clung  to  him;  "some 
other  day." 

Mrs.  Katherine  Chisholm  repeated  the  story  of  the 
rescue  at  a  little  social  gathering  that  evening  in 
the  parlor.     She  did  it  with  sundry  embellishments. 


2s6       FIGURES  FAMED   IN   FICTION 

for  already  she  unconsciously  idealized  the  hero. 
Haverford  the  Episcopal  rector,  young  Winslow  the 
lawyer,  and  Wilkins  the  mine  superintendent  were 
among  the  interested  listeners. 

"Look  sharp,  Haverford!  You'll  lose  your  lead- 
ing lady  member!"  laughed  her  brother  Arthur. 
"Kate  will  go  to  his  church  now,  sure." 

"I'm  just  crazy  to  see  him,"  said  Mabel,  Arthur's 
wife,  "after  hearing  Kate's  description." 

"How  did  she  describe  him? "  they  cried  in  chorus. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  going  to  tell,  Kate.  You  needn't 
look  at  me  like  that,"  said  Mabel. 

"Have  you  seen  him?"  asked  one  of  Winslow. 

* '  Oh,  yes ;  I  see  him  every  day.  He  lives  in  the  rear 
end  of  the  church.  There  is  something  outre  about 
him — has  a  queer  look  out  of  his  eyes.  Strange 
mortal!     Kind  of  a  nondescript,  anyway." 

"He  came  from  England,"  said  Wilkins  quietly. 
"He  is  an  educated  man  and  a  gentleman."  Kath- 
erine  gave  him  a  grateful  glance.  "And  he's  an 
eloquent  preacher,  if  I'm  any  judge,  and  quite  a 
musician,  too." 

"Oh,  no  doubt  the  fellow's  all  right,"  said  Haver- 
ford. 

"If  you  want  that  kind,"  said  Winslow. 

"How  horrid  you  all  are!"  exclaimed  Katherine, 
going  to  the  piano.  "I'm  going  to  play  you  into 
another  mood!" 

"Mabel,"  said  her  husband  when  they  were 
alone,  "what  was  it  Kate  said  to  you  about  the 
preacher?" 


CLEMENT  VAUGHN  257 

Mabel  was  taking  down  her  hair,  and  she  shook 
it  about  her  face. 

"I'll  never,  never  tell  you!" 

Her  husband  coaxed  her  and  petted  her,  and 
finally  turned  with  an  injured  air. 

"Oh,  well,  don't  tell  me  unless  you  wish  to." 

"You  know  I  never  have  any  secrets  from  you, 
Arthur,  but  really  Kate  would  be  furious  if  she 
should  know  I  told  you.  Well — if  I  must — she 
said  that  he  might  have  been  Tristram  on  his  way 
to  Isolde  or  a  Holy  Father  with  the  sacrament. 
There!     But  if  she  ever  finds  me  out — " 

"She  never  will,  I  promise  you,"  said  her  husband, 
while  a  troubled  look  came  into  his  eyes.  Was 
not  Kate  his  own  sister,  and  was  she  not  a  dear, 
romantic,  impressionable  soul,  and  could  he  help  a 
more  than  curious  interest? 

Meanwhile  the  preacher's  work  was  most  dis- 
couraging. The  notice  in  Jack  Perry's  saloon  only 
slightly  increased  the  congregation.  Vaughn  lay 
awake  all  one  Sunday  night  thinking  of  what  he 
should  do  next.  Something  must  be  done;  in  some 
way  he  must  reach  the  people!  The  idea  of  an 
open-air  service  on  the  street  corner  struck  him  all 
at  once  as  the  thing  to  do. 

Dashing  into  Jack  Perry's  saloon,  he  asked  for 
help  to  bring  the  organ  from  the  church. 

* '  Here,  you !     Dick !    Tom ! ' '  called  Jack. 

Four  other  men.  Jack  himself  among  them,  fol- 
lowed to  the  church  and  brought  out  the  organ. 

"Jack's  got  some  one  singin'  fer  him  to  draw," 


258       FIGURES  FAMED   IN   FICTION 

was  the  comment  when  Vaughn's  clear  voice  rose 
on  the  air  in  harmony  with  the  organ  music.  As  he 
sang  hymn  after  hymn,  people  began  to  gather. 
Then  he  talked  to  them  for  a  little,  explaining  his 
work  in  simple,  earnest  fashion,  and  asking  them  to 
give  him  a  fair  show.  He  invited  them  to  the 
church;  out  of  sheer  curiosity  they  followed  as  he 
led  the  way. 

Assembled  there,  he  spoke  to  them  out  of  his  full 
heart.  "I  have  no  doctrines  to  urge,"  said  he, 
"except  the  one  duty  of  following  Christ,  the  divine 
man,  who  taught  us  how  to  live  and  how  to  die." 

Jack  had  taken  his  station  near  the  door.  He 
smiled  grimly  as  he  critically  scanned  the  crowd. 

"It's  a  fifty-dollar  house  if  they  don't  dead-head," 
he  mused,  "and,  by  jimminy,  they  shan't!" 

As  soon  as  the  benediction  was  pronounced  Jack 
was  on  his  feet,  "Parson,"  said  he,  in  his  slow 
drawl,  "you've  done  your  part;  now  we'll  do  ourn. 
Here,  Ned!"  he  called  to  Wilkins.  No  one  ever 
disobeyed  Jack  Perry,  and  Wilkins  came  forward. 
"Now,  take  this  box  and  go  down  that  aisle  and 
see  that  every  feller  tips  up !  I  '11  go  down  the  other. 
'T ain't  often  that  Jack  Perry  acts  as  deaking,  but 
when  he  does,  it's  business!" 

When  the  rounds  were  made,  the  contents  of  the 
boxes  were  emptied  upon  the  table.  "Fifty-seven 
dollars  and  six  bits!"  announced  Jack.  "If  that 
ain't  enough,  parson,  we'll  go  the  rounds  again!" 

Enough!  It  was  more  money  than  he  had  seen 
since  arriving  in  Eureka. 


CLEMENT  VAUGHN  259 

The  Eureka  Sentinel  the  next  morning  contained  a 
picturesque  account  of  the  service,  and  in  conclusion 
welcomed  to  the  town  of  Eureka  the  talented  young 
preacher,  prophesying  that  he  would  find  the  harvest 
great,  the  laborers  few,  and  the  pay  blanked  little! 

Meanwhile  the  child  Elsie  had  not  forgotten  her 
gallant  rescuer.  She  had  clung  to  him,  loved  him, 
and  he  had  loved  her  and — could  she  forget  him? 
One  day  she  eluded  Nora's  vigilant  care,  wandered 
far  down  the  hill,  and,  as  good  fortune  would  have 
it,  saw  the  tall  form  of  her  hero  at  a  distant  street 
crossing.  Away  she  went  like  the  wind,  and  fol- 
lowed him  into  the  church.  There,  an  hour  later, 
after  an  anxious  search,  her  mother  found  her  fast 
asleep  in  his  arms,  his  delicate,  sensitive  hand  rest- 
ing upon  her  curls.  He  asked  permission  to  ac- 
company them  home. 

"Come  up  and  meet  my  friends,"  said  Katherine 
as  they  approached  the  wide  veranda  where  a  com- 
pany awaited  them.  Somehow  she  felt  sure  of 
him  and  proud  of  him.  They  received  him  as  be- 
came well-bred  people,  and  yet  with  a  covert  air  of 
inquiry.  This  put  him  on  his  mettle,  for  this  was 
her  world.  It  was  a  world  not  altogether  unfamiliar 
to  him,  and  he  entered  it  confidently.  He  talked 
in  their  language,  told  stories  from  their  point  of 
view,  put  on  their  armor,  skirmished  with  a  skill 
that  challenged  theirs.  He  touched  Haverford,  the 
rector,  where  he  was  most  sensitive ;  showed  Winslow 
to  them  at  his  dullest — for  the  young  lawyer  was 
also  there ;  charmed  the  hostess,  Mrs.  Mabel  Sinclair, 

17 


26o       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

and  made  her  husband  wonder  what  was  this  man's 
family  and  what  the  circles  in  which  he  had  moved. 

As  for  Katherine,  her  eyes  glowed  like  stars !  She 
was  proud  of  him !     She  exulted  in  her  joy. 

"You  will  come  again;  you  must,"  she  pleaded. 

He  laughingly  promised,  and  hurried  away,  won- 
dering at  the  new  light  and  fire  in  himself  evoked 
by  this  new  atmosphere.  It  was,  indeed,  her  king- 
dom ;  he  was  willing  she  should  know  it  was  his  also. 

On  his  return  through  the  darkness  two  men  in 
miner's  garb  accosted  him. 

"Be  you  the  man  as  runs  the  hallelujah  outfit?" 
said  one. 

"The  what?" 

"The  saint  factory,  the  sinner-be-damned  place," 
said  the  other. 

"Oh,  the  church!  Yes,  yes;  I'm  the  parson. 
What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

"Why,  ye  see,  parson,  Charlie  Davenport's  passed 
in  his  checks  and  dropped  out  of  the  game.  The 
boys  want  him  planted  in  fine  style,  and  Jim  and 
me's  a  committee  to  see  if  you  will  do  the  job  'way 
upinG." 

"  'Way  up  in  G?  I  don't  understand.  What  has 
Mr.  Davenport  done?" 

"Don't  you  savvey?  Why,  Charlie's  dropped  out 
of  the  game,  gone  up  the  flume,  passed  over  the 
divide!     Blank  it,  ain't  that  clear?" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Davenport  is  dead,  and  you  want  me 
to  bury  him.     Is  that  it?" 

"That's  it;  you've  tumbled.     We  want  a  little 


CLEMENT  VAUGHN  261 

business  at  the  church,  and  some  more  at  the  grave. 
That 's  where  you  want  to  do  your  hollerin'.  An'  we 
want  plenty  o'  singin'  o'  the  real,  techin'  kind.  And 
we  want  ye  to  understand  the  boys '11  all  be  there. 
It'll  be  the  biggest  send-off  ever  got  up  in  Eureka." 

"Did  Mr.  Davenport  have  any  children?" 

"Well,  now,  maybe.  They  say  that  kid  at 
Mclntyre's— " 

' '  Parson  did  n't  mean  that,"  said  the  other.  ' '  No, 
Charlie  didn  't  leave  any  children." 

'  *  Is  there  a  widow  ? ' ' 

"They  don't  go  by  that  name,"  said  the  first 
speaker  grimly. 

"What  were  some  of  Mr.  Davenport's  character- 
istics?" asked  Vaughn.  "He  seems  to  have  had  a 
good  many  friends. ' ' 

"Well,  now,  parson,  first  and  foremost,  he  bucked 
the  tiger.  There  ain't  a  miner  nor  a  cowboy  in 
this  here  region  but  has  met  Charlie  at  the  cards 
and  been  cleaned  out,  soon  or  late.  He  was  dead 
on  the  trigger,  too.  And,  I  tell  ye,  parson,  when  it 
came  to  cussin'  a  man  there  was  no  feller  could  use 
words  like  Charlie.  And,  speakin'  of  the  trigger, 
he  was  that  cool!     He  had  nerves  like  steel  wire!" 

"But,  my  friends,  what  can  I  say  at  the  funeral 
of  such  a  man?"  asked  Vaughn  helplessly. 

"Why,  parson,  ye  can  say  he  was  a  good  feller. 
He'd  give  his  last  cent  to  pull  ye  out  of  a  hole; 
and,  more  than  all,  he  never  went  back  on  his 
friends." 

The  day  came.     The  whole  county  was  there. 


362        FIGURES   FAMED    IN    FICTION 

"I  am  the  resurrection  andthe  life  I"  The  words 
of  the  solemn  liturgy  never  sounded  more  solemn. 
Then  the  committal  service,  followed  by  the  Lord's 
Prayer,  and  the  benediction.  Then  came  a  pause. 
The  committee  edged  up  to  the  preacher. 

"Why  don't  ye  give  it  to  'em?  The  boys  expect 
ye  to  give  'em  hell!  Make  it  hot  as  the  devil,  and 
be  blamed  quick  about  it." 

So  that  was  what  they  wanted!  The  scorching, 
burning  word;  something  that  would  stir  the  blood, 
that  would  scarify  and  make  clean;  they  wanted 
hell.     Very  well,  they  should  have  it! 

"My  friends,  Charlie  Davenport  is  dead.  He  is 
gone,  nevermore  to  return.  Gone  where?  you  ask. 
He  has  gone  to  be  judged.  The  book  of  his  life 
will  be  opened,  and  sentence  will  be  given.  And 
let  me  tell  you,  the  same  thing  will  come  some  day 
to  you;  perhaps  it  will  be  soon.  You  will  be  dead 
and  gone  hence  to  the  judgment  bar." 

Then  he  let  himself  go.  He  freed  his  mind,  de- 
nouncing sin  as  he  never  had  done  before.  They 
wanted  it  hot,  and  they  should  have  it;  righteous- 
ness, temperance,  and  judgment  to  come!  And  he 
concluded  with  a  fervent  exhortation  to  turn  from 
sin  to  the  divine  mercy  and  the  clean  life. 

To  his  astonishment  it  was  received  with  a  stir  of 
satisfaction.     The  committee  thanked  him  warmly. 

"You  done  it  up  brown,  parson,  that's  what  you 
did.  If  Charlie  ain't  a-settin'  on  a  cloud  with  a 
liarp  an'  a  crown  'tain't  our  fault  nor  yourn." 

What   could  he   say?     What   could  he  do   with 


CLEMENT  VAUGHN  263 

such  men  ?  Such  lack  of  comprehension !  Such  utter 
failure  to  see  the  ideals  which  meant  so  much  to  him ! 

"I've  been  hearing  all  about  the  great  funeral," 
said  Katherine,  when  he  called  upon  her  that  after- 
noon. "The  senator  and  the  governor  were  both 
there,  and  they  say  it  was  the  most  wonderful 
funeral  sermon  they  ever  heard.  But,  Mr.  Vaughn, 
why  did  you  come  to  a  place  like  this  ? ' ' 

"Would  it  surprise  you  very  much  if  I  should  tell 
you  that  I  came  because  I  thought  God  wanted  me 
to  do  so?" 

"It  wouldn't  surprise  me — in  you,"  she  answered. 

Then  the  poetic  mood  came  over  him.  His  face 
took  on  a  rapt  expression.  "Do  you  mind  if  I  try 
the  piano?"  he  said. 

She  stood  beside  him,  and  noted  the  kindling  of 
his  eye,  the  clinging  touch  of  those  magnetic  fingers. 
He  threw  back  his  head  and  burst  into  a  song; 
beautiful,  tender,  romantic!  Poor,  overburdened, 
troubled  heart !  It  was  finding  relief  and  exjjression 
now,  and  his  beautiful  listener  was  spellbound.  He 
drifted  into  a  little,  plaintive  melody. 

"What  is  that?"  she  cried. 

"I  don't  know.     I  never  played  it  before." 

"Oh,  it  is  so  sweet!    Won't  you  write  it  forme?" 

He  did  so. 

"I  wonder  what  words  belong  to  it,"  she  said. 

"You  must  find  that  out  for  me,"  was  his  reply. 

It  was  so  good  to  know  this  relaxation,  this 
expression  of  himself,  to  breathe  this  native  air,  to 
meet  this  kindred  spirit.     Some  day  he  would  tell 


264       FIGURES   FAMED   TN   FICTION 

her  his  sad  story;  some  day  he  would  tell  her  abouL 
his  wife — the  dead  weight  in  his  Hfe.  His  was  too 
sincere  a  heart  to  wish  to  appear  other  than  what  he 
really  was.     Some  day  she  should  know. 

Meanwhile  he  was  winning  his  way  with  the  rough 
men  of  the  street.  Jack  Perry,  for  one,  knew  a 
man  when  he  saw  him;  and  just  now  Jack's  gray 
eyes  were  seeing  things. 

There  was  one  man,  however,  who  felt  otherwise. 
Martin  Young  was  out  of  sorts.  His  sweetheart 
had  asked  the  parson  if  she  should  marry  one  whom 
she  did  not  love.  Vaughn  thought  of  his  own  sad 
history,  and  assured  her  that  a  loveless  union  was 
awful.     Martin  had  laid  it  up  against  him. 

The  social  life  which  Vaughn  encouraged  among 
the  people  had  Jack  Perry's  backing.  A  barrel  of 
lemonade  for  each  occasion  was  his  contribution. 
Vaughn  had  insisted  that  there  should  be  no  spirits 
in  the  compound,  and  Jack  had  consented. 

"They  say  Jack's  struck  on  the  parson,"  said 
Martin  to  Mat  Kyle;  "furnishes  the  liquor  for  his 
church  parties." 

"Look  here!  You  better  let  up  on  that.  It's  a 
lie,  and  Jack  would  skin  ye  alive!" 

Martin  had  been  drinking,  and  grinned  mali- 
ciously. He  disregarded  Mat's  advice,  and  spread 
the  story. 

"Go  on!"  said  Jack,  while  his  eyes  blazed.  He 
had  come  upon  Martin  in  one  of  his  tirades.  "Go 
on!"  The  man  was  not  so  drunk  but  that  he  saw 
trouble. 


CLEMENT  VAUGHN  265 

"Well,  it's  the  truth.  Jack  Perry  furnishes  the 
liquor  for  the  parson's  sociables.  Oh,  I  was  only 
foolin',  Jack!     For  God's  sake,  don't  shoot!" 

"Get  down  on  your  knees!"  thundered  Jack,  with 
his  revolver  at  Martin's  head.  "Down,  and  say, 
*I  confess  I'm  a  blanked  liar!'" 

Down   Martin  went,  and  repeated  the  words. 

"Now  crawl  to  the  parson's  study  and  say  the 
same  thing!  Go  on,  now!  Crawl!  I '11  see  that  ye 
get  there ! ' ' 

The  strange  thing  was  accomplished,  but  it  made 
a  bitter  enemy  of  Martin  Young. 

"Is  it  true  that  the  French  saloon  keeper  at  the 
'Morning  Star'  drew  his  revolver  on  you?"  A 
friend  who  was  visiting  Vaughn  asked  the  question. 

"How  did  you  hear  that?" 

"Will  Dower  heard  it  at  Battle  Mountain.  Is  it 
true?" 

"Yes;  the  fellow  said  I'd  spoiled  his  business.  I 
unbuttoned  my  coat  and  said,  'Shoot  away!  You 
can't  hit  me' ;  and  somehow  he  let  it  pass."  Vaughn's 
eyes  shone  like  stars  in  their  dark  setting. 

Katherine  heard  the  stories.  She  was  filled  with 
fears  for  him.  Others  there  were  who,  with  less  of 
fear  for  his  safety,  gloried  in  him. 

"I  tell  you,  the  parson's  good  stuff!"  said  Ned 
Wilkins.  ' '  Down  on  the  corner  to-day  a  fellow  was 
mad  as  the  devil  with  him.  He  was  going  for  him,  as 
the  Frenchman  did  at  the  *  Morning  Star. '  He  'd  just 
whipped  out  his  revolver,  when  a  pair  of  runaway 


266        FIGURES   FAMED   IN    FICTION 

horses  came  down  the  hill.  The  parson  jumped  for 
'em  and  got  'em,  all  right,  but  if  it  had  n't  been  for 
that,  the  fellow  would  have  hit  him,  sure.  We 
fixed  him  all  right  before  the  parson  got  back." 

And  so  the  work  went  on.  Sir  Galahad  was  in 
the  saddle,  and  there  was  no  such  thing  as  fear. 

One  dark  night  Clement  Vaughn  saw  that  which 
astonished  and  pained  him.  It  was  young  Winslow, 
the  la\\yer,  approaching  the  cottage  where  sweet 
Ellen  Brady  was  staying  with  her  brother,  and  he 
saw  her  girlish  welcome  as  she  opened  the  door.  His 
blood  boiled  with  indignation,  and  none  the  less 
because  the  man  was  one  of  the  suitors  for  the  hand 
of  Katherine. 

They  laid  a  plot  for  the  preacher,  Winslow  one  of 
the  ringleaders.  A  wager  was  laid  that  there  were 
certain  chapters  in  the  Bible  that  the  preacher 
would  not  dare  to  read  in  public.  Jack  Perry, 
while  not  active  in  the  plot,  was  nevertheless  some- 
what mystified  and  tremendously  interested.  He 
sent  for  him.  When  \^aughn  arrived  he  found  quite 
a  little  company  gathered,  and  he  braced  himself, 
suspecting  mischief. 

"Do  you  believe  in  the  whole  of  the  Bible?" 
asked  Jack. 

"I  do,  Jack.     You  ought  to  know  that." 

"You  don't  throw  out  none  of  it?" 

"Not  a  word.     Why  do  you  ask ? " 

"  'Cause  they've  been  a-sayin'  as  there's  chapters 
that  ain't  decent  to  be  read  in  public,  and  that  you 
wouldn't   read   'em.     They   said   as   how   the   Old 


CLEMENT  VAUGHN  267 

Gentleman  didn't  put  'em  in,  but  that  'twas  the 
work  of  the  other  fellow." 

Vaughn  looked  over  the  list  of  chapters.  He  saw 
the  pit  they  had  digged.     Winslow  chuckled. 

"Well,  I  suppose  you  will  bring  your  wives  and 
daughters  to  hear  me." 

' '  Not  much ! ' '  said  Barker.  Louise  Barker  was  the 
most  beautiful  girl  in  Eureka,  and  the  best  beloved. 

"Oh,  it's  to  be  all  men.  Very  well."  This  was 
the  point  he  had  wished  to  gain.  He  appointed  an 
evening.  Some  forty  men  assembled.  He  locked 
the  door.  He  had  prayed  for  strength  and  wisdom, 
and  was  ready  for  them.  He  read  the  chapter  and, 
in  a  commentary  upon  it,  he  attacked  the  vices  of 
the  men  before  him.  He  did  not  spare.  He  gave 
facts  and  dates,  and  his  audience  thought  that  verily 
the  Judgment  Day  had  come.  Winslow  watched 
them  with  a  bitter  smile.  He  had  not  stooped  to 
this  low  life.  Oh,  no.  But  his  turn  came  also. 
Vaughn  suddenly  exclaimed,  pointing  him  out  with 
his  long  finger,  "All  these  are  venial  sins  compared 
with  the  sin  of  him  who  takes  an  innocent  young 
girl-" 

"Say  another  word,  and  I'll  blow  your  brains 
out!"  cried  Winslow,  drawing  his  revolver.  In- 
stantly the  room  was  in  confusion.  In  the  midst  of 
the  uproar  Jack  Perry's  voice  rang  out,  clear  and 
steady  as  a  trumpet-call. 

"I'll  take  care  of  this  case,  gentlemen.  Gene 
Winslow,  give  me  that  shootin'  iron  or  I  '11  pump 
you  as  full  of  lead  as  a  lead  mine!" 


268       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

While  and  shaking,  Winslow  obeyed.  No  man 
ever  dared  disobey  Jack  Perry. 

"You're  a  dirty  dog,  if  ye  are  Eugene  Winslow!" 
he  said,  as  he  took  the  revolver. 

The  meeting  was  at  end,  but  Clement  Vaughn 
was  stronger  among  them  than  he  ever  was  before. 

But  Winslow  was  beside  himself  with  shame  and 
confusion.  He  laid  one  more  snare  which,  had  it 
not  been  for  Clement  Vaughn's  genius,  would  have 
succeeded.  It  was  this  way.  The  leading  nation- 
ality in  Eureka  was  Irish.  Vaughn  was  known  to 
be  from  England.  In  the  debating  club  on  a  certain 
evening  the  question  discussed  was  the  right  to 
suppress  revolution.  It  was  sprung  upon  the  meet- 
ing, or,  rather,  upon  Vaughn,  who  was  kept  in 
ignorance  until  the  last  moment.  Although  put  in 
general  terms,  the  real  question  was  the  right  of 
England  to  trample  upon  Ireland. 

The  plot  came  to  Katherine's  ears.  She  induced 
her  brother  to  take  her  to  the  meeting.  In  fact, 
every  one  was  there.  The  animus  of  the  thing 
came  out  in  the  opening  speech.  Vaughn's  turn 
came.  He  saw  it  all  now,  and  his  active  brain  was 
never  more  alive.  He  bowed  to  the  chairman  and 
to  the  audience,  and  his  gaze  wandered  to  the  place 
where  sat  the  people  from  Richmond  Hill.  Here 
one  pair  of  keen,  earnest  gray  eyes  held  his  own  for  a 
moment  with  an  expression  of  indignant  sympathy 
and  resolute  good  will.  They  gave  him  all  he  needed 
and  more.  For  a  time  he  played  with  the  question 
with  mock  courtesy;  showed  that  he  saw  through 


CLEMENT  VAUGHN  269 

the  plot  and  then,  with  a  perfect  stroke  of  genius, 
dropped  into  the  Irish  accent  as  he  said : 

"Ah,  me  friends,  I,  too,  have  Irish  blood  in  me 
veins.  I,  too,  love  the  Emerald  Isle.  The  gentle- 
man has  eloquently  portrayed  the  sufferings  of  Ire- 
land but — I  beg  his  pardon  —  his  eloquence  lacks 
something.  Sure,  he  has  niver  felt  the  charm  of 
that  land.  Can  he  shut  his  eyes  and  see  the  shores 
of  Killarney  when  the  morning  sun  gilds  the  slopes  of 
Eagle  Mountain  ?  Can  he  in  his  dreams  watch  the 
McGillicuddy  Reeks  fade  into  the  sunset  glow  ?  Can 
he  picture  the  fair  vale  of  Avoca  ?  '  T  is  the  Garden 
of  Eden,  gentlemen.    God  never  made  a  fairer  land ! ' ' 

By  this  time  the  audience  was  aflame.  The 
others  might  talk  about  the  Irish;  this  was  Irish. 
No  one  but  an  Irishman  could  have  said  it  in  that 
inimitable  way.  Then  he  went  on  to  discriminate 
between  the  revolutionist  on  the  one  hand  and  the 
reformer  on  the  other,  condemning  the  former  and 
commending  the  latter.  Then  he  called  the  roll  of 
the  Irishmen  who  had  fought  England's  battles  in 
Parliament  and  on  the  field — Wellington,  Wolseley, 
Edmund  Burke,  Sir  Richard  Steele. 

"The  two  countries  are  one,  gentlemen!  Cut 
England,  and  Ireland  bleeds.  What  would  England 
do,  pray  tell  me,  if  half  the  foremost  Englishmen 
to-day  were  n't  Irishmen?"  and  he  ended  by  calling 
for  three  cheers  for  England  and  Ireland. 

Katherine's  feelings  may  be  imagined.  He  had 
triumphed  magnificently!  Her  eyes  were  brimming 
over  with  light  and  laughter.     "It  was  delicious!" 


2:o 


FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 


she  said  to  him  after  it  was  over;  and  those  short 
words  were  guerdon  enough. 

As  his  work  went  on,  it  grew  more  and  more 
strenuous.  There  were  so  many  to  comfort,  to  en- 
courage, to  warn.  There  seemed  to  be  a  conspiracy 
to  prevent  him  from  sleeping !  His  poetic  soul  gave  of 
its  best  and  then — felt  the  reaction.  He  was  tired, 
so  tired !  He  wished  he  could  see  his  sister,  but  she 
was  miles  away.  Then — ah !  that  was  it !  He  would 
visit  the  one  womaii  of  all  Eureka,  at  Richmond 
Hill.     She  would  sing  to  him  if  he  should  ask  her. 

"I  knew  how  it  would  be,"  she  said  softly  when 
at  last  he  came.  "Life  is  too  hard,  too  exacting, 
for  a  man  like  you." 

How  pale  he  was!  How  sad  the  lines  about  his 
mouth !  How  pathetic  the  appeal  in  his  eyes !  And 
when  he  asked  her  would  she  sing,  there  was  a 
light  in  her  eye  that  was  almost  as  good  as  music. 
She  went  to  the  piano. 

"You've  never  asked  me  for  the  verses  I  was  to 
write  for  your  melody,  the  music  you  wrote  out  for 
me.  Would  you  really  like  to  hear  them?"  for  his 
eagerness  was  unmistakable. 

She  struck  a  few  chords.  "Yes,  yes,  that's  it, 
that's  right;  B  fiat."  And  then  she  sang — and  her 
soul  was  in  her  voice : 

"  Along  the  silent  ways  there  came 

A  troubadour,  a  troubadour, 
As  out  of  darkness  shines  a  flame, 

And  in  his  hand  a  harp  he  bore! 

He  sang  of  Joy  in  overflow. 

He  sang  the  Pain  mankind  must  know, 
And  they  who  listened  to  the  voice 
With  it  did  mourn,  with  it  rejoice." 


CLEMENT  VAUGHN  271 

He  was  at  her  side  in  an  instant.  "They  are  one, 
the  words  and  the  music !  You  have  told  my  secret. 
You  have  expressed  just  what  I  am.  I  do  beHeve 
I  am  nothing  but  a  troubadour.  Why,  oh,  why 
should  I  pretend  to  call  myself  a  priest  of  God?" 

There  was  an  ineffable  sadness  in  his  voice. 

"Nevertheless  you  are  a  minister  of  God,  and  a 
true  one.     You  are  much  more  than  a  troubadour." 

"I  cannot  believe  it!"  he  exclaimed.  "I'm  kind 
and  sympathetic  and  I  mean  well,  so  they  say. 
But — do  I  convict  the  sinner?  Have  I  sent  great, 
searching  waves  of  penitence  through  this  unholy 
town?  No,  they  come  to  hear  me  say  touching 
things.  They  come  to  hear  me  sing ! "  He  laughed, 
oh,  so  bitterly. 

'  *  Don't ! ' '  she  cried.     ' '  I  cannot  bear  it ! " 

"But,  tell  me,  what  single  life  have  I  renewed? 
What  heart  have  I  changed?" 

"Mine!"  she  answered  solemnly.  "Mine.  Just 
wait,  there  is  another  stanza.  I  have  never  sung  it 
aloud,  even  alone,  but  I  will  sing  it  now." 

Tremulously,  her  soul  in  tumult,  but  resolutely 
she  sang; 

"  But  more  than  this  thou  gavest  me, 

0  troubadour,  O  troubadour! 
All  that  I  hoped  and  meant  to  be, 

Like  flooding  waves  returns  once  more. 

1  take  the  Joy,  I  dare  the  Pain, 
Content  to  be  myself  again. 

Sing  on,  sing  on,  as  God  hath  meant. 
My  heart  shall  be  thy  instrument." 

With  the  last  word  she  arose  and  stood  before 
him.     Ah!  but  he  was  alive  now,  with  the  life  of 


272        FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

stars  and  meteoric  flames  and  the  vitalizing,  mag- 
netic forces.  Oh,  if  he  had  only  told  her  his  story 
before  this  revealing  came!  He  would  have  spared 
her ;  but  now  he  must  do  his  best  to  repair  the  wrong 
of  silence. 

"Now  I  will  be  strong  in  this,"  she  heard  him 
saying,  and  his  voice  thrilled  her  through  and 
through.  His  eyes — those  wonderful,  star-like  eyes — 
were  bent  upon  her.  It  was  not  a  time  for  the 
explanations  that  must  come;  it  was  simply  a  time 
for  conscience  and  the  strong  moral  forces.  For 
at  last  he  knew  all,  without  a  shadow  of  conceal- 
ment, and  the  knowledge  was  a  mingling  of  the 
Supreme  Joy  and  the  Supreme  Pain. 

"Parson,"  said  Jack  Perry,  "I  want  to  ask  ye 
somethin',  an'  I  don't  know  how  to  begin." 

"Well,  come  straight  to  it,  Jack.  Put  the  thing 
pointblank." 

"God  Almighty,"  groaned  Jack,  "I  can't!  I'm 
hard  hit." 

He  looked  it.     He  had  aged  ten  years. 

"If  it  had  been  anybody  else,  parson!  But  I 
thought  I  knew  you.  I've  said,  'Here's  a  feller 
that 's  made  of  the  right  stuff,  an'  we  can  f oiler  him ! ' 
An'  I  've  foUered — every  step  of  the  way." 

"But  I  don't  understand.  In  what  way  am  I 
different  now?" 

"Oh,  Lord!"  groaned  Jack,  and  for  a  moment 
turned  away.  "Mr.  Vaughn,  if  anybody 'd  told  me 
yesterday  that  I'd  a  smelt  fire  on  yer  clothes,  I'd 


CLEMENT    v^JGHN  273 

have  blowed  his  blanked  brains  out.  My  God, 
parson,  what  are  yef"  Jack  stood  up  and  looked 
down  at  him.  "I've  believed  in  ye,  an'  loved  ye, 
an'  trusted  ye  till  now.  But  now,  by  the  Eternal, 
ye've  got  to  explain.  If  you're  one  o*  them  cusses 
after  women — " 

With  an  imperious  gesture  Vaughn  stopped  him. 
"I  refuse  to  explain,"  he  said  haughtily.  Of  course 
Jack  had  seen  him  with  Katherine  and  had  mis- 
judged him. 

"All  right,"  said  Jack  grimly.  "Then  that 
Forington  woman  over  at  the  hotel  can  go  ahead 
and  rouse  the  town  if  she  wants  to." 

Vaughn  reeled  as  if  drunken.  "What  did  you 
say  ?   A  woman  ?    What  did  you  say  was  the  name  ? ' ' 

"Forington.  An'  she  tells  a  pretty  straight 
story,  too." 

Verily,  this  was  the  sledge-hammer  blow  of  Fate! 
Vaughn  was  dumb.  Then  he  heard  Jack's  voice — 
it  sounded  far  away : 

"I'll  fix  things  up  any  way  ye  say.  I'll  tell 
everybody — what  in  hell  will  I  tell  'em?" 

"She  is  my  wife,"  said  Vaughn. 

"Parson,  ye  don't  need  to  lie,  ye  know.  She  can 
be  got  out  o'  the  way  somehow,  an'  nothin'  said, 
an'  you  can  pervide  for  her.  Understand?  Ye 
don't  need  to  bluff  with  me." 

' '  Oh,  Jack !  Oh,  Jack ! ' '  cried  Vaughn.  His  head 
was  on  the  big,  gray  shoulder,  the  strong,  gray  arm 
was  about  him.  The  whole  sad  story  came  out, 
from  beginning  to  end. 


274       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

"Some  uf  'em  are  like  that,"  was  Jack's  comment. 

A  great  tenderness  had  come  into  his  heart  in  ad- 
dition to  all  the  old  admiration  and  confidence.  The 
parson  n-js  pure  gold,  after  all.  Thank  God  for  that 

Of  course  Clement  Vaughn  went  to  see  her;  of 
course  he  remembered  that  he  was  her  husband; 
of  course,  too,  he  tried  to  win  her  interest  in  the 
work  he  was  doing,  and  to  secure  her  presence  and 
her  help  in  it.  But  no;  she  was  imperious  and 
frivolous  and  cold.  She  would  die  if  she  lived  in 
Eureka.  She  could  n't  stand  the  foolishness  of  his 
religious  work  anyway.  Now  the  question  was, 
would  he  or  would  he  not  go  back  with  her  to  Eng- 
land where  he  belonged?  And  he,  who  asked  his 
conscience  again  and  again  what  was  and  was  not 
right  and  duty  —  w^hat  should  he  do? 

Meanwhile  the  most  distorted  stories  were  rife 
in  the  town.  It  was  said  that  this  woman  was  not 
his  wife,  but  had,  none  the  less,  a  claim  upon  him. 
Indeed,  she  had  said  when  she  first  came  that  she 
had  a  claim  upon  him.  The  result  was  simple  and 
inevitable.  The  deplorable,  pitiful  conviction  stole 
into  the  minds  of  men  that  the  parson  was,  after  all, 
no  better  than  the  rest  of  them.  Jack  Perry, 
indeed,  knew  better;  so  did  a  dozen  others  who 
had  sense  enough  to  see  the  truth  in  all  its  bearings. 
But  the  hard  fact  remained  that  Eureka  had 
changed  front,  and  the  little  church  went  down, 
down,  down !  The  superintendent  paid  a  visit  and 
gave  to  Vaughn  his  remorseless  verdict;  the  exigen- 
cies of  the  case  required  that  he  leave  the  field. 


CLEMENT  VAUGHN  275 

And  so  it  had  come  to  this!  He  was  driven  out, 
dishonored,  where  he  had  been  trusted  and  loved! 
How  could  he  bear  it?  Sensitive  soul  that  he  was, 
the  suffering  bore  some  resemblance  to  agony.  He 
hurried  out,  blinded  by  a  rush  of  tears,  and  climbed 
the  Geiger  Grade.  The  -gray  day  was  closing.  The 
canon  lay  in  shadow.  The  lights  of  the  town 
twinkled  in  the  darkness.  And  so  it  was  all  over! 
He  had  done  his  best,  he  had  fought  the  good  fight 
and  kept  the  faith,  and  yet  the  end  was  defeat.  A 
turn  in  the  road  brought  him  to  the  great  rock 
which  marked  the  highest  point  of  the  grade.  Some 
one  was  sitting  there,  a  woman  alone,  and  it  was 
his  wife. 

And  Katherine?  At  first  she  laughed  at  the 
stories,  then  was  forced  to  see  that  something  ugly 
was  true.  And  then — after  all  her  faith  in  him, 
her  utter  surrender,  her  almost  ecstatic  joy,  there 
was  humiliation  too  deep  for  words. 

"Don't  look  like  that,  Katherine,  don't!"  said 
her  sister. 

"Why,  how  do  I  look?" 

"Oh,  I  can't  tell  you.  One  would  think  you  had 
lost  everything." 

"I  have  lost  everything!  I  have  lost  all  faith  in 
God  and  man.  I  have  said  of  him,  'He  makes  me 
believe  in  the  Immaculate  Conception !  He  is  what 
Christ  would  have  been  with  a  human  father!  His 
is  the  realization  of  the  sins  of  the  world  which  he 
cannot  take  away,  and  the  burden  of  its  sorrow.* 
18 


2  76       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

And  now,  God  in  Heaven!  it  has  come  to  this!" 
Why  did  he  not  tell  her,  long  ago,  she  asked  her- 
self. Why,  indeed?  Why  should  he?  What  had 
he  done,  anyway?  Was  it  not  all  her  doing,  from 
first  to  last?  She  saw,  now,  that  he  came  to  her 
simply  for  rest,  for  courage,  for  inspiration.  Of  any 
wrong,  then,  with  reference  to  herself,  she  could 
acquit  him.  Perhaps  he  could  be  acquitted  of  all 
wrongdoing.  Was  it  wrong  for  one  to  leave  a 
wife  in  England?  She  would  wait  and  hope  then. 
Why  not? 

"Seen  a  ghost.  Mart?"  asked  one  of  Martin 
Young  as  he  stumbled,  white  as  a  sheet,  into  the 
saloon. 

"Ghosts  be  blanked!"  he  said  solemnly.  "It's 
wuss'n  that." 

"What  was  it,  Mart?     Come,  out  with  it!" 

"I  see  an  orful  sight!  I  see — a  man — push  a 
woman — over  the  Geiger  Grade — an'  then  jump 
over  himself!" 

They  crowded  around  to  hear  the  rest. 

"What  man?     What  woman?" 

" 'Twas  the  parson  an' — an'  — "  In  a  second 
Jack  Perry  had  him  by  the  collar.  "Lemme  go, 
Jack.  It's  Gawd's  truth.  Go  down  on  the  lower 
road,  an'  you'll  find  'em." 

They  found  them,  Vaughn  bending  over  her  dead 
body.  He  looked  up  piteously,  exclaiming,  "She's 
dead!" 

Martin  Young's  story  went  like  wildfire  through 


CLEMENT  VAUGHN  277 

Eureka.  He  told  his  story  at  the  inquest,  and 
nothing  could  shake  it.  He  evidently  believed  it 
himself.     Vaughn  gave  himself  up. 

His  friends  said  the  story  simply  could  not  be 
true.  "  'T  ain't  in  him.  What  if  he  did  give  him- 
self up  ?    '  T  was  just  like  him  to  do  some  such  thing. ' ' 

On  the  other  hand,  there  was  Martin's  solemn 
oath  as  to  what  he  saw,  and  his  evident  sincerity. 
Eureka  could  see  Vaughn's  possible  motive  plainly 
enough,  and  the  tide  turned  against  him.  And,  to 
crown  all,  when  the  trial  came  the  prisoner  pleaded 
guilty  and  would  not  explain. 

"Arthur,  tell  me,  what  was  the  sentence?"  asked 
Katherine.     She  was  pale  and  trembling. 

"The  extreme  penalty,  my  dear;  nothing  less." 

' '  But  is  there  no  way  out,  no  way  at  all  ?  Is  there 
nothing  that  can  be  done?" 

"Nothing,  my  dear.  His  friends  begin  to  gather 
now,  and  there's  weeping  and  wailing  in  Eureka. 
They  remember  how  he  loved  them  and  prayed  for 
them,  and  they  are  urging  him  to  escape.  But  he 
won't  do  it,  and  there's  no  hope." 

"Arthur,"  said  she,  and  her  face  was  like  marble 
while  her  eyes  shone  like  fire,  "Arthur,  I  am  going 
to  the  jail.  I  don't  care  who  sees  me.  I  don't 
care  who  knows." 

"Yes,  you  do!"  he  answered  steadily.  "You 
think  just  now  that  you  don't  care,  but  you  do.  If 
I  should  let  you  go  down  there  into  that  mob  hang- 
ing around  the  jail,  they  would  say,  "There  she 
comes,  the  other  woman!    You  could  not  bear  it." 


2 78       FIGURES   FAiMED   IN   FICTION 

"I  can  bear  anything.  I  don't  care  what  they 
say  if  I  can  help  him." 

"But  my  dear,  dear  sister  Kate,  you  wouldn't 
help  him.  His  case  would  grow  so  much  the  blacker 
if  they  saw  you  there.  No,  dear;  your  place  is  here 
under  your  brother's  roof,  and  under  his  protection." 

It  was  the  night  before  the  day  set  for  the  ex- 
ecution. Twenty  masked  men  rode  up  to  the  jail 
and  demanded  to  see  the  jailer.  "We  want  to  send 
a  man  to  see  the  prisoner,"  they  said. 

"Mr.  Vaughn,  the  boys  are  here,  and  they're 
ready!  Come,  we're  goin'  to  do  it!  We're  goin' 
to  get  you  out  of  this!  Got  some  mighty  good 
horses.     Come!" 

"Tell  the  boys  I  thank  them  from  my  heart,  but 
if  they  take  me  away,  as  God  lives,  I  will  come  back! " 

And  so  the  last  hope  fled. 

Mat  Kyle,  the  jailer,  in  an  agony  of  sympathy, 
asked  his  prisoner  if  he  could  do  anything  for  him, 
for  he  loved  him  as  his  own  soul. 

"Yes,  Mat;  there  is  one  thing.  Let  me  say  my 
last  words  to  you.  They  may  ask  you — after- 
wards— what  I  said.  I  won't  burden  your  memory 
with  many  words,  but  just  tell  them  this:  It  isn't 
what  a  man  says  or  does,  hut  what  he  thinks!  Tell 
them  that." 

Mat  was  puzzled.  Thinking !  What  had  that  to 
do  with  the  case?  To  Mat  "thinking"  meant  sit- 
ting down  and  getting  all  snarled  up. 

"It  is  the  secret  thought  that  kills,"  continued 
Vaughn.     "I  hated;  therefore  I  was  a  murderer." 


CLEMENT  VAUGHN  279 

Mat  winked  hard.  What  did  the  parson  mean  by 
that?     He  was  trying  hard  to  understand. 

"Hold  on,  parson.  Didn't  yer — didn't  yer  push 
her  over?" 

"No,"  said  Vaughn  sadly.  "She  jumped.  She 
said  it  was  my  fault,  and  that  she  hoped  I'd  be 
hanged  for  it.     Why,  Mat,  where  are  you  going?" 

"Parson,  parson — you'll  have  to  excuse  me. 
I — I've  got  something  to  do." 

"Jack!  Get  up  quick.  I  —  I — I — there's  some- 
thin'  I  must  tell  ye!" 

' '  Well,  out  with  it !     Hev  they  lynched  him  ? ' ' 

"No!     No!     It's  this.     He— he  didn't  do  it T' 

"What!    What!     Didn't  do  it?" 

"That's  it.  She  jumped.  Ye  see,  the  parson  was 
tellin'  me  somethin'  to  tell  the  boys — afterwards. 
An'  he  says,  'Mat,'  says  he,  'it  ain't  what  a  man 
does,  but  what  he  thinks,  that  Almighty  God  judges 
him  by.'  Did  ye  ever  look  at  it  in  that  light.  Jack? 
What  do  ye  think?" 

"Go  on!  What  did  he  say?  There  ain't  any 
time  to  fool  away  on  what  I  think." 

"That's  what  he  said.  'I  hated  her;  consequen- 
tially I  'm  a  murderer!'  " 

"But  he  said  she  jumped?" 

"That's  what  I'm  tellin'  ye,  over  and  over!" 

' '  All  right !    Who 's  downstairs  ? ' '  said  Jack. 

' '  Dick,  Tim,  Joe, —  all  the  boys. 

' '  Send  up  them  three ! ' ' 

"Boys,"  said  Jack,  "we've  got  just  ten  hours  to 
run  to  Palisade,  see  the  governor,  and  get  back." 


28o       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

"Tlie  II  :3o's  gone!"  said  Dick. 

"I  know  that.  Joe,  you  go  over  to  the  station 
agent  and  tell  him  that  Jack  Perry  wants  a  hand 
car.  Dick,  you  rout  out  the  telegraph  operator, 
and  tell  him  Jack  Perry  says  to  clear  the  tracks 
to  Palisade.  Now,  Mat,  here's  a  job  for  you. 
When  we  get  started,  you  just  holler  fer  a  special 
Providence." 

"What's  them?"  said  the  sheriff,  dumfounded. 

"Them?  That's  where  the  Old  Gentleman  steps 
in.  I  tell  ye.  Mat,  we  can't  get  that  blam-jam  hand 
car  up  to  Palisade  an'  back  without  somethin' 
more  'n  four-man  power !  Parson  says  there  is  such 
things — him  an'  me  talked  it  over  once.  An'  so 
your  job  is  to  get  right  at  it !     Do  ye  hear  ? " 

"All  right,  Jack."  Mat  stood  by  the  track  as  the 
car  went  by  for  Palisade.  He  fell  upon  his  knees. 
"O  God!  O  God!"  he  cried,  and  that  was  his  prayer. 
But  if  ever  a  human  heart  went  up  to  Almighty 
God  in  a  cry  for  help,  it  was  then. 

"See  that,  will  ye!"  cried  Jack.  "The  wind's 
changed!     'T ain't  in  our  faces  now!" 

And  Katherine!  How  she  ever  lived  through 
that  awful  night  she  never  knew.  She  thought  she 
would  go  mad.  Ten  in  the  forenoon !  That  was  the 
awful  hour.  In  the  gray  of  the  morning  she  stole  out 
to  the  stables.  She  remembered  the  childish  romps 
and  games  there  in  other  days.  A  woman  now,  she 
stood  there,  paying  the  price  of  her  womanhood. 

"Jerry!"  she  called  softly  to  the  stableman. 


CLEMENT  VAUGHN  281 

' '  Yes,  ma'am.     Right  here ! ' ' 

' '  I  want  you,  Jerry,  to  go  down  to  the  jail  by  and 
by,  and  bring  me  word  after — as  soon  as — " 

"I  will,  ma'am,  I  will.     Anything  else,  ma'am?" 

"No,  no!    That  is  all." 

The  hours  wore  away.  Eight  o'clock,  nine  o'clock 
came.  "Oh,  this  is  awful!  This  is  unendurable!" 
she  cried.  Glancing  at  the  wall,  she  saw  a  picture 
of  the  Madonna.  In  her  agony  she  threw  herself 
upon  her  knees.  "O  Mother  of  Sorrows!"  she 
prayed,  "even  Christ  did  not  bear  what  you  bore  — 
to  stand  by — to  wait — till  it  was  done!  Help,  oh, 
help,  Mother  of  Christ!" 

Was  that  a  bell  tolling?  Was  there  no  power  on 
earth  to  stop  this  monstrous  thing?  She  flung  out 
her  arms,  and  prayed  again.  "O  Lord  most  holy, 
O  God  most  mighty,  O  holy  and  merciful  Saviour! 
Let  not  this  deed  of  violence  be  done!  Take  him, 
oh,  take  him  gently  to  Thyself." 

A  horse !     Jerry  was  coming. 

"Come  in!"  she  faltered. 

"Jack  Perry — brought — a  reprieve — from  the 
governor.  But  the  parson — dropped  dead — when 
he  heard  the  news!" 

Katherine  clutched  the  back  of  the  chair. 

"Jerry,"  she  said,  with  tense  lips,  "put  the  grays 
into  the  surrey  and  drive  me  down  to  the  jail." 

Arrived  there.  Jack  came  to  the  door,  "This 
ain't  no  place  for  you,  ma'am,"  he  said  roughly. 

"Mr.  Perry,  please  be  good  to  me.  All  I  ask  you 
is  this :  please  give  me  his  precious  body.    No  woman 


282       FIGURES  FAMED   IN   FICTION 

ever  claimed  so  little.  Just  to  care  for  it,  to  prepare 
it  for  the  long  sleep." 

She  stretched  out  her  hands  with  an  indescribably 
pathetic  gesture.  Her  great  beauty  was  never  more 
appealing. 

"What '11 — folks — say?"  he  asked  slowly. 

Then  she  blazed  at  him.  "We've  had  enough  of 
that.  It  was  that  that  sent  him  to  the  gallows! 
Him  to  the  gallows,  and  he  gave  you  his  love  and 
his  prayers  and  his  heart's  blood."  The  tears 
rained  down  her  face. 

"They  say,"  said  Jack,  "that  'twas  because  he 
wanted  to  please  you  that  he  done  the  deed.  I've 
thought  so  myself  sometimes." 

He  said  it  to  prove  her. 

"To  please  me?"  she  cried  out  bitterly,  "He 
never  so  much  as  touched  my  hand,  except  as  cour- 
tesy demanded  it.  And  I  adored  him!  I  don't 
care  who  knows  it,  now  that  he  is  gone.  You  will 
give  me  the  body  now?"  she  added  wistfully. 

A  strange  look  came  over  his  face. 

"What  if  I  tell  you — there's  life  in  it?" 

"What?  What?  Life?"  she  cried  with  parted  lips. 

"Yes;  we  thought  he  was  dead  for  sure,  but  the 
good  Lord  eaved  him.  He's  sleepin'  like  a  child. 
Do  you  want  to  look  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  no!     No!  He  might  not  like  it." 

And  then  came  the  great  revulsion  of  feeling. 
She  clasped  her  hands  in  a  fervor  of  thanksgiving. 
Jack  Perry  thought  he  had  never  seen  a  more 
beautiful    face. 


CLEMENT  VAUGHN  283 

"Oh,  Mr.  Perry!  if  there's  anything  he  wants  — 
or  that  you  think  he  ought  to  have — " 

"He'll  have  it,  ma'am!  Don't  you  fret.  You 
ain't  the  only  one  that  sets  store  by  him." 

"Mr.  Vaughn,"  said  Jack,  "the  lady  at  Richmond 
Hill  sent  ye  these  flowers.  She  sends  to  get  word 
from  ye  every  day.  I  thought  ye  might  like  to 
know.  An'  there's  another  thing.  When  they  said 
ye  was  dead  she  came  here  to  beg  for  yer  body. 
Mr.  Vaughn,  I've  thought  hard  things  about  her, 
and  perhaps  I  've  said  things,  but  I  've  changed  my 
mind.  I'll  take  'em  all  back.  When  she  talked 
about  you  and  yer  work  here  she  cried  like  a  baby ! 
The  tears  just  rained  down  her  face!  She's  pure 
gold,  that's  what  she  is,  nothin'  more  nor  less." 

"God  bless  you.  Jack!  God  bless  you!  I've 
been  hungry  for  some  little  word  from  her.  You 
have  told  me  more  than  I  ever  hoped  to  know." 

"An',  parson,  here's  another  thing.  Eureka's 
come  to  its  senses  at  last,  and  every  blanked  soul  in 
it  has  petitioned  the  Mission  feller  to  give  ye  back 
yer  church.  He  done  it,  all  right;  here's  his  letter. 
Now  what  do  ye  say  to  goin'  down  the  valley  fer  a 
couple  o'  months  till  ye  get  good  an'  strong?" 

"Oh,  Jack,  I'd  like  it!  I  can't  tell  you  how  much! 
And  Jack,  would  you  mind  telling  her  that  the 
black  night  is  going,  the  dawn  is  coming,  and  the 
day  will  be  glorious?  Tell  her  this.  Jack,  and  let 
her  be  her  own  interpreter." 


BERAULT 

A  S  I  tell  you,  my  friends,  this  my  tale  of  adven- 
■^^  ture,  I  confess  to  a  good  deal  of  shame.  I  had 
a  strange  battle  to  fight  —  a  struggle  with  myself — 
and,  though  the  Lord  knows  some  of  the  conflict 
was  humiliating  enough,  still  I  confess  also  that  I 
am — and  ever  have  been — glad  and  proud  of  the 
outcome.  I  am  but  a  soldier,  and  a  stranger  to  fine 
phrases,  and  I  talk  straight  on  as  I  tell  you  my  story. 

Although  of  noble  birth  I  w^as — like  so  many  of 
my  time — a  soldier  of  fortune.  When  there  was 
no  campaigning  I  ranged  the  streets  and  resorts 
of  Paris,  and  the  gaming  table  was  my  mainstay. 
One  night  a  youth  insulted  me  in  the  midst  of  the 
game.  He  should  have  known  better,  me,  the  best 
swordsman  in  Paris!  However,  we  went  out  into 
the  court  back  of  old  St.  Jacques  and  settled  it.  As 
he  lay  on  the  ground,  wounded  but  not  dead,  some 
one  cried,  "The  cardinal's  guards!"  and  before  you 
could  say  a  pater  noster,  they  had  me  fast. 

For  you  see  the  cardinal  had  made  a  stringent 
law  against  dueling;  the  punishment  was  death.  I 
was  an  old  offender — had  already  killed  some  half- 
dozen  men — and  I  feared  there  would  be  no  mercy. 
That  night  I  had  cold  chills  in  the  dungeon,  for  the 
more  I  thought  upon  it  the  surer  I  grew  that  the 
cardinal  would  make  of  me  an  example  to  strike 
terror  through  Paris.     But  when,  after  a  three  days' 

284 


BERAULT  285 

suspense,  I  was  summoned  into  his  presence  I  put  a 
bold  face  on  it ;  that  is,  as  bold  as  I  could,  consider- 
ing the  man  into  whose  presence  I  was  brought.  The 
great  Cardinal  Richelieu!  The  man  of  unbending 
will,  cold  heart,  and  almost  superhuman  penetration! 
There  he  stood,  with  his  keen,  pale  face  and  his 
brilliant  eyes  that  pierced  me  like  cold  iron.  He 
had  humbled  the  great  Duke  of  Orleans,  he  had 
curbed  the  queen  mother;  a  dozen  heads,  the  noblest 
in  France,  had  come  to  the  block  through  him.  His 
enemies  plotted  and  raged  in  vain. 

He  looked  me  through,  and  smiled  in  his  cynical 
way.  "I  could  not  have  made  a  better  catch,  M. 
de  Berault.  You  have  killed  six  men  in  duels  and 
now,  let  me  tell  you,  the  law  must  take  its  course." 

This  he  said  after  questioning  me  with  a  view 
to  learning  something,  I  suppose,  and  he  turned 
with  a  cold  air  of  finality  to  collect  certain  papers. 
I  declare  I  was  never  so  near  to  fear — the  cold  chill 
of  it,  I  mean — in  all  my  life.  I  saw  the  scaffold 
swim  before  my  eyes.  If  I  said  aught  I  must  say 
it  quickly;  another  minute,  and  it  would  be  too  late. 

"Your  eminence!  If  you  would  but  give  me  one 
minute  alone!"  I  cried  in  my  desperation. 

"Ah,  ha!  You  know  something?"  he  said  in  his 
quick  way.  "But,  no,  no.  I  have  better  spies 
than  you." 

"But  no  better  sword,  your  eminence!"  I  said 
hoarsely.     "No,  not  in  all  your  guard." 

"That  is  true,"  he  said,  in  a  reflective  tone. 
"True,  you  are  a  good  sword.     Let  me  think,  my 


286       FIGURES  FAMED   IN   FICTION 

friend.  Yes,  M.  de  Berault,  you  are  a  good  sword; 
and  you  might  be  useful  to  me.  You  might  be,  if 
you  would. " 

"Your  eminence,  I  can  and  I  will,"  I  said. 

"Well,  monsieur," — he  still  spoke  in  that  cold, 
deliberate  way  of  his — "I  believe  3'ou  to  be  a  man 
of  honor,  notwithstanding  all  your  folly.  I  am 
minded  to  trust  you.  No,  no;  do  not  answer  me. 
I  think  I  will  give  you  one  more  chance.  Woe  be 
to  you  if  you  fail  me ! 

"I  have  a  piece  of  business  for  you,"  he  continued. 
"There  is  a  certain  man,  one  M.  de  Cocheforet, 
who  has  given  me  more  trouble  than  I  care  to  tell. 
He  has  been  engaged  in  every  Gascon  plot  since 
the  king's  death,  and  is  most  dangerous  to  the  state. 
He  is  at  present  in  Spain,  just  over  the  border.  He 
visits  his  wife  occasionally  at  the  chateau  near  Auch. 
On  one  of  these  visits  he  must  be  arrested." 

"That  should  be  easy,"  I  said. 

"  Little  >'ow  know !  Why,  man,  the  whole  prov- 
ince is  a  hotbed  of  treason!  If  a  soldier  crosses 
the  street  in  Auch  it  is  whispered  at  the  chateau. 
The  arrest  must  be  made  secretly,  for  a  spark  might 
kindle  a  fresh  rising." 

I  bowed. 

"One  resolute  man  inside  the  house,"  he  con- 
tinued, "with  the  help  of  two  or  three  servants  if  he 
could  win  them  over,  might  effect  it.  He  must 
deceive  the  household,  and  play  a  sharp  game.  He 
must  have  nerve  and  courage,  and  no  conscience  to 
speak  of.     The  question  is,  will  you  be  the  man?" 


BERAULT  287 

I  hesitated,  not  because  of  fear,  but  in  dislike  of 
the  low  trickery. 

"Well,"  said  the  cardinal,  "yes  or  no?" 

"Yes,  your  eminence;  I  engage  to  do  it." 

For,  in  all  goodness,  what  choice  had  I?  It  was 
this  enterprise,  such  as  it  was,  or  death  on  the 
scaffold. 

I  went  on  my  long  journey  to  the  south  of  France 
attended  by  only  two  servants.  I  had  ample 
leisure  to  think  about  my  errand,  and  I  swear  I 
had  little  taste  for  it.  In  good  faith,  it  was  not  a 
gentleman's  work,  look  at  it  how  you  might.  Ar- 
riving at  the  little  village  not  far  from  the  chateau, 
I  went  to  the  inn  — a  rather  mean  affair — and  found 
myself  at  once  the  object  of  suspicion.  I  did  my 
best  to  disarm  it,  sounded  the  praises  of  Henry  IV, 
denounced  the  cardinal,  and  hinted  mysteriously 
of  work  to  be  done  over  the  border.  I  had  brought 
some  choice  Armagnac  in  my  saddle  bags.  I  offered 
the  landlord  a  glass,  and  presently  he  accepted  an- 
other. This  loosened  his  tongue,  and  we  talked,  he 
boasting  of  his  southern  province,  I  of  the  north. 

"Look  at  your  horses!"  said  I.  "We  have  some- 
thing better  in  the  north  than  scrubby  ponies." 

"So!"  he  exclaimed.  "Think  you  so?  Why, 
man,  I  can  show  you  now  in  the  inn  stable  a  better 
horse  than  your  own." 

I  laughed  in  his  face.  It  stung  him,  and  he 
started  for  the  door.  Of  course  I  followed  him  out 
to  the  stable,  where  he  showed  me  as  beautiful  a 
thoroughbred  as  one  often  sees.     At  the  moment, 


288       FIGURES  FAMED   IN   FICTION 

however,  his  sober  second  thought  changed  him, 
and  he  abruptly  closed  the  stable  door.  But  I  had 
seen  enough.  That  horse  was  not  owned  in  the 
village.  That  horse  must  belong  to  Cocheforet,  the 
man  I  was  seeking.  He  must  be  here  even  now  on 
one  of  his  visits  from  Spain !  That  was  quite  clear  to 
my  mind.     And  now  for  the  next  move  in  the  game. 

I  watched  a  long  time  from  my  attic  window  that 
night,  expecting  to  see  my  man;  nor  was  I  disap- 
pointed. About  midnight  I  heard  voices,  and  after 
a  time  made  out  the  figure  of  a  man — a  gentleman, 
I  knew  from  his  bearing — and  near  him  a  woman 
with  whom  he  was  speaking.  Soon  a  light  from 
the  window  flashed  upon  them,  and  I  saw  her  form 
and  face.  The  night  was  warm,  and  she  wore  no 
outer  garment.  Her  white  dress,  her  queenly  bear- 
ing, the  turn  of  her  head  as  she  talked — I  can  see 
them  now.  I  knew  for  almost  a  certainty  that 
these  were  the  people  with  whom  I  was  to  deal.  A 
few  minutes,  and  they  were  gone;  and  I  lay  down 
upon  my  bed,  wondering  how  I  was  to  gain  entrance 
to  the  chateau.  I  could  not  sleep,  and  at  early 
dawn  I  arose  and  went  out. 

Just  as  I  stepped  into  the  street  I  saw  something 
lying  on  the  ground,  and  picked  it  up  hastily.  I 
thought  it  might  possibly  be  a  little  note,  or  at  least 
something  that  might  help  me.  It  proved  to  be  a 
small  orange-colored  sachet  such  as  women  carry, 
usually  filled  with  scented  powder.  Doubtless 
she  had  dropped  it  last  night.  I  turned  it  over 
curiously,  and  put  it  in  my  pocket.      Little  did  I 


BERAULT  289 

imagine  the  part  it  was  to  play  in  my  adventure. 

Well,  I  reconnoitered  a  little,  found  the  way  to 
the  chateau,  and  even  got  a  glimpse  of  it.  The 
next  question  was  how  to  secure  admission  there. 
I  made  my  plan,  and  this  is  the  way  I  carried  it  out. 
That  day  a  company  of  men  rode  up  to  the  inn. 
They  were  well  armed,  as  was  needful  in  those 
times,  and  that  evening  it  suited  me  to  pretend  to 
be  drunken  and  to  pick  a  quarrel.  From  words 
we  came  to  blows,  and  I  was  handled  roughly.  At 
length,  bruised,  cut,  and  bleeding,  but  not  seriously 
hurt — I  took  good  care  of  that — they  pitched  me 
out  of  the  house  and  fastened  the  door.  After  a 
time  I  made  my  way  into  the  woods  and,  after  long 
tramping  in  the  rain  and  the  darkness,  knocked  at 
the  door  of  the  chateau. 

After  much  ado  I  aroused  some  one  within. 

"Who  is  there?"  said  a  voice. 

"A  gentleman  in  distress!  They  abused  me  at 
the  inn,  and  I  have  been  wandering  in  the  woods." 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  servant,  and  a  woman's 
voice  from  under  the  gallery  said,  ' '  I  am  afraid,  sir, 
that  you  are  hurt." 

"It  is  true,  madame,  but  all  I  ask  is  shelter  for 
the  night." 

"You  shall  have  it,  sir.  We  do  not  turn  the  un- 
fortunate from  our  doors." 

This  was  my  welcome  to  this  house  upon  which 
I  had  such  infernal  designs.  How  I  despised  myself 
for  a  mean,  dishonorable  knave,  unworthy  of  the 
name  I  bore! 


2QO       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

The  next  morning  I  met  the  lady  of  the  house 
and  also  another  whom  she  introduced  as  her  sister. 
I  introduced  myself  as  M.  de  Barthe,  a  gentleman 
of  Normandy.  The  ladies  were  as  gracious  as 
they  were  refined  and  beautiful.  I  sat  at  their 
table  an  honored  guest,  not  that  day  only  but  the 
next  day  and  the  next.  Their  frankness,  their 
sweetness,  their  evident  trust  in  me,  a  gentleman 
—  I  do  not  mind  saying  it  got  on  my  nerves! 
They  had  a  trusted  servant,  however,  who  looked 
upon  me  with  an  evil  eye,  and  dotibtless  made  no 
secret  to  them  of  his  suspicions.  Nevertheless, 
whatever  they  may  have  suspected,  they  treated 
me  even  as  high-minded  ladies  would  treat  a 
gentleman. 

One  afternoon,  as  I  was  seated  in  the  garden,  one 
of  the  ladies  crossed  the  lawn  and  entered  the  wood. 
It  was  the  one  whom  I  supposed  to  be  Mme.  de 
Cocheforet,  and  I  immediately  suspected  that  she 
was  on  her  way  to  meet  her  husband.  Quickly  I 
followed  her,  keeping  well  out  of  sight — or  thinking 
I  did  so.  She  went  a  long,  long  way,  turning  sharp 
comers  in  the  woody  lane  that  seemed  to  have  no 
end.  As  I  turned  one  of  these  corners  in  my  pursuit 
I  came  suddenly  face  to  face  with  her!  I  was 
astounded.  I  understood  it  then.  She  had  pur- 
posely lured  me  away. 

Then  she  confronted  me  with  infinite  scorn  and 
anger,  pouring  out  upon  me  the  vials  of  her  wrath. 
"You  spy,  you  hound,  you — gentleman!  Oh! 
Men  Dieu!    We  will  pay  you  for  this  some  day! 


BERAULT  291 

I  did  not  think  there  was  anything  so  vile  as  you 
in  all  this  world." 

I  stammered  I  know  not  what.  I  tried  to  right 
myself,  but  she  would  none  of  it, 

"But,  madame,"  I  said. 

"I  am  not  madame,  thank  you.  I  am  made- 
moiselle. Madame  is  now  having  an  interview  with 
her  husband.  As  for  you,  sir,  you  will  spend  the 
night  at  the  inn,  and  to-morrow  you  will  get  you 
gone  to  your  master,  you  spy,  you  coward,  you 
hound,  you — gentleman!" 

She  was  magnificent  in  her  fury  as  she  swept  past 
me  fearlessly  and  left  me  alone. 

Shame  and  rage  fought  together  for  my  soul.  I 
reached  the  inn  after  long  wandering  in  the  wood, 
ate  my  supper,  and  to  bed.  As  I  opened  my  doublet 
something  fell  to  the  floor.  It  was  the  little  bag 
I  had  picked  up  on  the  night  of  my  arrival.  I  had 
not  thought  of  it  since.  I  opened  it  curiously,  and 
was  astonished  to  find  more  than  a  dozen  of  the 
finest  gems  I  had  seen  in  a  long  time.  Now  I  remem- 
bered that  they  had  been  searching  for  something 
at  the  chateau  while  I  stayed  there,  and  were  evi- 
dently much  concerned  at  the  loss.  This  must  be 
the  lost  treasure. 

I  found  an  escort  waiting  for  me  in  the  morning, 
and  I  was  started  on  the  road  without  ceremony. 
I  swore  at  them  roundly,  only  to  be  told  with  a  grin 
that  we  were  going  over  the  border  into  Spain.  For 
a  time  I  made  the  best  of  it.  How  I  outwitted  my 
guards  and  finally  made  my  escape  I  have  not  the 

19 


292       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

time  to  tell.  But  I  had  a  beautiful  scheme  in  my 
head,  and  I  put  on  a  bold  front  as  I  returned  to  the 
inn  from  which  I  had  been  led  away  under  guard 
the  day  before. 

Arrived  there,  I  found  quite  a  detachment  of  the 
cardinal's  guards.  Some  of  them  were  at  the  chateau 
itself,  as  I  afterwards  found.  They  had  evidently 
been  sent  to  do  what  I  had  thus  far  failed  to  do. 
Well,  never  mind;  I  was  in  for  something  exciting, 
that  was  plain. 

After  eating  my  supper  I  was  sitting  by  the  fire, 
for  the  night  was  cool,  when  a  woman  came  in.  She 
was  shabbily  dressed ;  a  shawl  over  her  head  was  held 
together  by  a  dirty  brown  hand ;  her  feet  and  ankles 
were  bare.  She  carried  a  pitcher,  which  the  inn 
keeper's  wife  filled  with  broth  for  her.  As  she 
turned  away,  something  in  the  pose  of  her  head  and 
her  carriage — a  little  trick  of  graceful  movement — 
caught  my  eye.  Quickly  I  arose  and  barred  her 
exit.  She  shrank  from  me  with  a  low  cry.  It  was 
none  other  than  Mademoiselle. 

"This  is  too  heavy  for  you,  my  girl.  Let  me 
carry  it  for  you,"  I  said  in  a  curt,  familiar  way. 
Outside,  alone  in  the  darkness,  I  said  more  cour- 
teously, "It  is  late  for  you  to  be  out,  mademoiselle. 
Permit  me  to  attend  you  home." 

Trembling  with  rage  or  fear — impotent  rage,  for 
the  most  part,  I  am  sure — she  went  with  me  and, 
as  we  entered  the  wood,  she  stopped  and  turned  on 
me  like  a  wild  creature  at  bay.  "What  do  you 
want?"  she  cried  hoarsely. 


BERAULT  293 

" Simply  a  brief  interview,"  said  I.  "That  is  all 
I  ask." 

"Well,  speak,  and  be  quick  about  it!  I  cannot 
breathe  the  same  air  with  you.     It  poisons  me!" 

' '  Mademoiselle,  not  so  bitter,  if  you  please.  Allow 
me  to  remind  you  that  I  am  one  to  be  feared.  Do 
I  not  know  that,  your  house  being  full  of  soldiers, 
you  were  forced  to  come  in  disguise  to  the  inn  to 
procure  a  supper  for  your  brother  in  hiding?  What 
if  I  should  tell  the  captain?" 

She  trembled,  and  almost  fell. 

"Your  price!"  she  murmured  faintly. 

Now  had  come  the  moment  of  my  revenge. 

"Mademoiselle,  about  a  fortnight  ago  M.  de 
Cocheforet  lost  a  little  orange-colored  sachet.  You 
know  what  the  bag  contained.  You  all  searched 
for  it  in  vain."  I  took  the  packet  from  my  doublet 
and  held  it  toward  her.  "Will  you  open  it,  made- 
moiselle, and  see  if  the  gems  are  all  there?" 

She  took  it  like  one  in  a  dream.  Finally  she 
repeated  again  the  words  in  a  tragic  whisper,  "Your 
price!" 

"It  is  this,  my  lady.  You  remember  when,  the 
day  before  yesterday,  I  followed  you  through  the 
wood  to  restore  these  things,  you  were  very  angry 
with  me  and  called  me  some  very  harsh  names. 
The  only  price  I  ask  for  restoring  your  jewels  is  this ; 
that  you  recall  those  names,  and  say  they  were  not 
deserved." 

She  stood  dumfounded,  trembling. 

"What!     I  do  not  understand.     Is  that  all?" 


394       FIGURES  FAMED   IN   FICTION 

"Only  one  thing  more,  mademoiselle.  I  ask  per- 
mission to  be  the  protector  of  yourself  and  your 
sister  while  the  soldiers  are  here.  You  will  not 
refuse  me  the  privilege,  I  hope." 

She  raised  her  hand  to  her  head.  After  a  long 
pause  she  murmured  hoarsely,  "The  frogs!  They 
croak !     I  cannot  hear ! ' ' 

Then  she  turned  suddenly  from  me  and  walked 
away.  After  a  minute  she  returned,  sobbing  and 
weeping. 

"Oh,  my  friend!"  she  cried,  "what  shall  I  say  of 
your  generosity?  How  shall  I  tell  of  my  shame? 
Forgive  me!  Forgive  me!  I  cannot  talk  now.  I 
am  overwrought,  and  we  are  so  sunk  in  trouble. 
Will  you  take  me  home?" 

And  so  I  returned,  a  guest,  to  the  chateau.  I 
will  not  stay  to  tell  of  the  high  and  mighty  time  I 
had  with  the  captain  of  the  soldiers.  The  squad 
of  men  had  overrun  the  house,  and  were  overbearing 
and  insulting.  I  took  a  high  hand  with  them  as 
intruders,  the  captain  quarreled  with  me,  and  we 
met  in  the  garden  to  settle  it. 

I  had  my  own  reasons  for  not  wishing  to  fight. 
He  thought  me  irresolute,  and  taunted  me. 

"Well,  "  I  said  coldly,  "I  do  not  know  what  to  do. 
On  the  one  hand,  I  have  not  much  to  gain  by  killing 
you;  on  the  other  hand,  it  would  not  hurt  me  to  let 
you  go." 

"Indeed!"  said  he  with  a  sneer. 

"No;  for  if  you  were  to  say  that  you  had  struck 
down  Gil  de  Berault  no  one  would  believe  you." 


BERAULT  295 

He  stared  like  one  demented. 

"What!    I  thought  your  name  was  de  Barthe." 

"It  suits  me  to  take  that  name  down  here,"  I  said. 
I  read  the  fear  in  his  eye ;  I  had  seen  it  in  men's  eyes 
before.  "And  more  than  that,"  I  continued,  "I 
have  the  cardinal's  commission  for  this  business. 
There  are  several  things  for  you  to  think  of." 

"Well,"  he  said  with  a  swagger,  "if  you  have 
orders  from  the  cardinal —  Oh,  to  the  devil  with 
you !  Stay  here,  if  you  will,  and  I  will  take  my  men 
to  the  inn.  But  by  all  the  holy  saints!  there  is  one 
question.  Are  you  playing  traitor  to  those  two 
women,  or  to  the  cardinal?" 

Little  did  he  know  how  it  struck  home.  Which 
was  I  doing,  and  what  would  I  do  next?  Would 
to  God  I  knew ! 

When  the  captain  ordered  off  the  soldiers  the 
amazement  of  the  ladies  was  unbounded.  And, 
strangest  of  all,  there  had  been  no  duel. 

"What  magic  did  you  use?"  asked  Mademoiselle. 

"My  lady,  did  you  ever  hear  of  one  de  Berault, 
known  in  Paris  by  the  soubriquet  of  'The  Black 
Death'?" 

"The  duelist?  Yes;  I  have  heard  of  him.  A 
man  to  be  dreaded." 

"Mademoiselle,  I  am  he." 

She  was  astounded,  and  for  a  moment  knew  not 
what  to  say. 

"I  misjudged  you  once,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 
"Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  do  it  a  second  time. 
You  may  have  been  a  terror  to  your  foes,"  she 


296       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

added,  "and  the  blood  of  rash  mm  be  found  on  you. 
Still,  you  may  have  guarded  your  honor.  When  a 
man  has  not  lied,  nor  betrayed  the  innocent,  nor 
sold  himself  to  others,  I  could  forgive  him  all  else." 

Before  God,  I  had  rather  she  had  stabbed  me !  I 
turned  away  my  face  that  she  might  not  see  how 
I  winced  under  her  words.  Great  heavens!  How 
was  I  ever  to  do  that  which  I  came  to  do? 

The  captain  was  downright  mad  with  me,  and 
every  time  our  paths  crossed  the  madder  he  grew. 
He  could  not  flout  my  authority,  for  I  held  the  car- 
dinal's commission.  But  there  was  one  thing  he 
could  do  —  or  thought  he  could  do;  he  could  dis- 
credit me  with  Mademoiselle. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked  him.  "If  you 
think  you  can  prejudice  me  against  that  gentle- 
man—  " 

"That's  what  I  do  think.  He  is  a  black-hearted 
scoundrel,  a  sneaking  spy.  He  is  the  meanest, 
lowest  knave  alive.  He  is  here  in  the  cardinal's 
pay  to  deceive  you  and  ruin  you!" 

"Go  on,  monsieur,"  she  said  as  he  paused.  "Go 
on!    You  will  have  done  the  sooner." 

"You  do  not  believe  me?  Mon  Dieu!  Why,  his 
very  name  is  not  his  own.  It  is  not  Barthe;  it  is 
Berault,  the  duelist  of  Paris." 

"I  know  it,"  she  said  coldly;  "and  if  you  are  done 
with  your  vile  slanders,  you  may  go.  Suffice  it  to 
say,  I  do  not  believe  you,  and  I  despise  you." 

"Sacre!  You  are  mad,"  he  cried,  "or  else  be- 
witched !    Well,  God  help  you  when  the  time  comes ! ' ' 


BERAULT  297 

He  turned  and  left  us.  We  two  were  alone  in  the 
gloom.  The  frogs  were  croaking  in  the  pool.  The 
house,  the  garden,  the  wood  all  lay  quiet  in  the  dark- 
ness. As  for  me,  the  tortures  of  the  damned  were 
raging  in  my  soul.  Oh,  would  to  heaven  I  had  never 
met  this  woman,  whose  nobility  and  faith  and  truth 
were  a  continual  shame  to  me!  At  length  I  roused 
myself. 

"Mademoiselle,"  I  said  in  a  hoarse  voice,  "do 
you  believe  this  of  me?  Is  there  no  suspicion  in 
your  heart?" 

"Come  in,"  she  replied,  "and  I  will  show  you  if 
I  believe  it." 

She  led  me  in  to  the  blazing  hearth  and  there,  in 
the  full  light,  no  longer  a  shadowy  creature  but 
brilliant  and  throbbing  with  life,  she  stood  opposite 
me,  her  eyes  shining,  her  color  high,  her  breast 
heaving. 

"Do  I  believe  it?"  she  said.  "I  will  tell  you. 
M.  de  Cocheforet's  hiding  place  is  in  the  hut  behind 
the  fern  stack,  two  furlongs  from  the  village  on  the 
road  to  Auch.  You  now  know  our  secret.  You 
hold  our  fate  in  your  hands.  And  you  know  also, 
M.  de  Berault,  whether  I  believed  that  tale." 

Even  while  she  was  speaking  there  was  a  knock 
at  the  door,  and  one  of  my  men  took  me  outside. 
"They  have  found  him!"  he  cried.  "That  is,  they 
know  where  he  lies.  Come  quick,  and  we  may  be 
the  first!    We  can  follow  them,  and  then  dash  in." 

Hardly  knowing  what  I  did,  we  went  through  the 
wood,   my   man  and   I,   cutting  off   the  distance, 


298       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

arriving  long  before  the  soldiers.  So  far  were  we 
in  advance  of  them  that  I  had  the  fugitive  under 
arrest  when  they  arrived.  The  captain  was  in  high 
dudgeon,  but  I  produced  my  commission,  and  he 
was  forced  to  make  the  best  of  it.  In  the  midst  of 
our  altercation,  by  the  light  of  the  torches  I  caught 
sight  of  a  white  robe,  and  Mile,  de  Cocheforet 
glided  forward.  She  recoiled  from  me  as  if  I  had 
been  a  viper,  with  such  a  look  of  hate  and  loathing 
that  I  stepped  back  as  if  she  had  struck  me. 

"Do  not  touch  me!"  she  hissed,  and  crossing  over 
to  where  her  brother  stood,  she  hung  sobbing  upon 
his  shoulder. 

I  took  them  back  to  the  chateau,  and  the  next 
day  we  started  on  the  road  to  Paris.  They  had 
arranged  that  Madame  should  stay  behind,  and  that 
Tvlademoiselle  should  accompany  us.  She  wore  a 
mask  most  of  the  time,  and  when  I  could  see  her 
face  it  was  like  stone.  Once  she  cast  me  such  a  look, 
conveying  disgust  and  loathing  so  unspeakable  that 
scorn  beside  it  would  have  been  a  gift.  At  another 
time  I  saw  her  face  flame  in  deep  color;  at  her 
thoughts,  I  suppose,  of  all  that  had  been  between 
herself  and  me. 

Now  I  need  not  say — at  least,  I  hope  not — that 
I  had  formed  my  own  plan  of  what  I  would  do  when 
the  right  time  should  come.  It  comforted  me  some- 
what that  I  was  to  make  atonement  for  all  the  harm 
I  had  done,  albeit  the  thought  o:  what  was  to  come 
to  me  afterwards  made  my  heart  grow  cold. 

Those  who  know  the  great  south  road  to  Agen 


BERAULT  299 

will  remember  a  place  where  the  road,  two  leagues 
from  the  town,  runs  up  a  long  hill.  At  the  top  of 
the  hill  four  ways  meet,  two  of  them  leading  to 
Montauban  and  to  Bordeaux.  There  would  be  the 
place  for  my  atonement.  Even  now  we  could  see 
it  in  the  distance.  I  was  riding  ahead.  I  pulled 
up  and,  letting  Mademoiselle  pass  me,  I  detained 
M.  de  Cocheforet  a  moment. 

"Pardon  me,"  said  I,  "I  want  to  ask  a  favor." 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  said  he. 

"I  wish  to  have  a  few  words  with  Mademoiselle — 
alone." 

"Alone?"  he  replied,  frowning.  "But  why  not 
speak  those  few  words  to  me?" 

"That  will  not  do,"  said  I.  "I  want  a  private 
word  with  her." 

"No!"  he  cried,  his  anger  rising.  "I  know  what 
you  want.  You  would  have  her  sell  herself,  to  you 
soul  and  body,  to  save  me!  And  you  would  have 
me  stand  by  and  see  the  thing  done!  And  my 
answer  is — never,  though  I  go  to  the  wheel!  Oh, 
I  am  not  a  fool;  I  have  seen  the  drift  of  things;  I 
have  used  my  eyes." 

"Then  be  good  enough  now  to  favor  me  with 
your  ears,"  I  answered  dryly,  "and  listen  when  I  say 
that  no  such  bargain  ever  crossed  my  mind.  I 
simply  wish  to  speak  with  her.  I  have  no  favor 
whatsoever  to  ask  of  her.  Heavens,  man!  What 
harm  can  I  do  her  here  in  the  road  in  your  sight?" 

Without  a  word,  he  made  me  a  gesture  to  go  to  her. 

"Mademoiselle,"   I  said,   approaching  her  where 


^oo       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

she  sat  lier  horse,  "will  you  grant  me  the  privilege 
of  your  company  for  a  few  minutes  as  we  ride?" 

"To  what  purpose,  sir?"  in  the  coldest  voice,  I 
swear,  in  which  woman  ever  spoke  to  man. 

"That  I  may  explain  to  you  some  things  which 
you  do  not  understand." 

"I  perfer  to  be  in  the  dark,  sir,"  was  her  icy  reply. 

"But,  mademoiselle,  you  told  me  one  day  that 
you  would  never  judge  me  hastily  again." 

"Facts  judge  you,  not  I,  sir.  I  am  not  on  a  level 
low  enough  to  judge  you,  thank  God." 

"But  you  were  wrong  once,  mademoiselle.  You 
may  be  wrong  again." 

"Impossible!"  she  exclaimed,  and  then  she  said 
things  to  me  that  rankled.  All  her  scorn  and  loath- 
ing found  a  voice.  In  my  heart  I  could  not  blame 
her.     Nevertheless  it  cut  to  the  quick. 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  I  sternly,  "do  you  love 
him  ? ' '  pointing  to  her  brother  in  the  rear.  ' '  Because 
if  you  do,  you  will  let  me  tell  my  tale.  Refuse  me 
but  once  more,  and  you  will  repent  it  all  your  life." 

She  cowered  a  little  at  that.  "I  will  hear  you," 
she  answered  in  a  low  voice. 

"This  is  my  story,  then.  To  begin  at  the  begin- 
ning, two  months  ago  there  was  living  in  Paris  a 
soldier  of  fortune.  This  man  was  arrested  for  duel- 
ing. The  cardinal's  edict  against  it  had  been  broken, 
and  death  was  the  penalty.  It  chanced,  however, 
that  the  cardinal  himself  made  him  an  offer.  If  he 
would  seek  out  and  deliver  up  another  man  he 
might  himself  go  free. 


BERAULT  301 

"Mademoiselle,"  I  continued,  looking,  not  at  her 
but  into  the  distance,  "it  seems  easy  now  to  say 
what  coarse  he  should  have  chosen.  It  seems  hard 
now  to  find  excuses  for  him.  Suffice  it  to  say  that 
he  took  the  baser  course,  and  on  his  honor — on  his 
parole — he  went  forth  to  do  the  work  he  had  prom- 
ised to  do. 

"Some  portion  of  the  rest  of  this  story  you  know, 
mademoiselle,  but  not  all.  Arrived  at  his  destina- 
tion, this  man  pressed  his  way  into  his  victim's 
home.  He  found  there  two  helpless,  loyal  women; 
and  I  want  to  tell  you  that  from  the  first  hour  of 
his  entrance  into  that  home  he  sickened  of  the  work 
he  had  in  hand.  Nevertheless  he  had  given  his 
word;  and  there  was  one  tradition  of  his  race  that 
this  man  had  never  broken ;  it  was  to  keep  his  prom- 
ise, whatever  it  might  be.  But  he  pursued  his 
mission — if  you  will  believe  me — in  agonies  of 
shame.  Gradually,  however,  the  drama  worked  it- 
self out  before  him,  until  he  needed  only  one  thing 
for  the  hunger  of  his  soul." 

I  turned  and  looked  at  her,  but  her  head  was 
averted;  and  I  went  on.  "Do  not  misunderstand 
what  I  am  about  to  say.  This  is  no  love  story 
with  a  happy  ending.  But  I  am  bound  to  say, 
mademoiselle,  that  this  hard  man,  this  soldier  of 
fortune,  met  for  the  first  time  in  years  a  good  woman; 
and  by  the  light  of  her  loyalty  and  devotion  he 
came  to  see  even  clearer  than  ever  the  accursed 
shame  of  the  work  he  was  set  to  do.  And  I  am 
bound  to  say  also  that  it  added  a  hundred  fold  to 


302        FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

his  misery  that  when  he  learned  at  last  the  secret  he 
had  come  to  surprise,  he  learned  it  from  her  lips, 
and  in  such  a  way  that  had  he  felt  no  shame,  hell 
itself  would  have  been  too  good  for  him.  But  in 
one  thing  she  misjudged  him.  She  thought,  and 
had  reason  to  think,  that  the  moment  he  knew  her 
secret  he  went  out  and  used  it.  But  the  truth  was 
that,  while  her  words  were  still  in  his  ears,  news 
came  to  him  that  others  had  the  secret;  and  had  he 
not  gone  out  on  the  instant  and  forestalled  them, 
M.  de  Cocheforet  would  have  been  taken,  but  by 
others." 

"Would  to  heaven  he  had!"  she  wailed. 

I  could  not  understand. 

"Oh,  yes!  yes!  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  then? 
I —  Oh,  no  more!  no  more!  You  are  racking  my 
heart,  M.  de  Berault.  Some  day  I  will  ask  God  to 
give  me  strength  to  forgive  you.  But  not  now,  not 
now,  with  him  behind  us  going  to  his  death."  She 
drooped  over  her  horse's  neck  as  she  spoke,  and 
wept  like  rain.  I  thought  she  would  fall,  and  put 
out  my  hand  to  steady  her.  "No!"  she  cried.  "Do 
not  touch  me!    There  is  too  much  between  us." 

"Yet  there  must  be  one  thing  more  between  us," 
I  answered  firmly.  "There  is  one  course  still  open 
to  me  by  which  I  may  redeem  my  honor.  I  thank 
God  that  it  is  still  in  my  power  to  undo  what  I  have 
done.  I  am  going  back  to  him  that  sent  me,  and 
tell  him  that  I  have  changed  my  mind  and  will  pay 
the  penalty." 

"What?  What?"  she  cried.    "What  did  you  say? 


BERAULT  303 

I  cannot  hear."  And  she  began  to  fumble  with  the 
ribbon  of  her  mask. 

* '  Only  this,  mademoiselle.  I  give  to  your  brother 
his  freedom.  You  shall  tell  him  so  from  me.  There 
is  the  road  to  Montauban,  where  you  have  many 
friends  and  will  be  safe.  And  now,  my  lady,  I 
hope  your  troubles  are  over." 

She  tried  to  remove  her  mask,  but  the  ribbon  was 
knotted  and  she  gave  it  up.  "And  you?  You?" 
she  cried,  with  a  voice  so  changed  that  I  would  not 
have  known  it  for  hers.     "What  will  you  do?" 

"There,"  said  I,  "is  the  road  to  Paris.  That  is 
my  road.     We  part  here." 

' '  But  why  ?    Why  ? ' '  she  cried  wildly. 

"Because  I  go  to  redeem  my  honor.  Because  I 
dare  not  be  generous  at  another's  cost.  I  must  go 
back  to  the  cardinal  and  pay  the  penalty. " 

She  cried  out  in  dismay,  and  swayed  so  in  her 
saddle  that  I  sprang  to  the  ground  and  was  just  in 
time  to  catch  her  as  she  fell.  She  was  not  quite 
unconscious,  for  she  murmured,  "Leave  me!  Leave 
me!     I  am  not  worthy  that  you  should  touch  me!" 

Those  words  made  me  happy.  I  laid  her  gently 
down,  and  just  as  her  brother  came  up  I  rode  away. 

"Well,"  said  the  cardinal,  when  at  last  I  stood 
before  him,  "where  is  he?  What  have  you  done 
with  him?     Are  your  men  bringing  him?" 

"No,  your  eminence,"  I  said  with  the  courage  of 
despair,  "I  have  not  brought  him.  I  am  here  to 
confess  to  you  that  I  have  set  him  free." 


304       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

"Set  him  free!  And  why  was  that?"  His  eyes 
pierced  me  through. 

"Because,  your  eminence,  I  took  him  unfairly. 
Because  I  am  a  gentleman,  and  this  task  should  have 
been  given  to  one  who  was  not.  I  took  him  by  dog- 
ging a  woman's  steps,  and  winning  her  confidence, 
and  then  betraying  it.  And  whatever  I  have  done 
ill  in  my  life,  I  have  never  done  that,  and  I  will  not 
do  it  now." 

"Then  what  of  the  trust  I  placed  in  you,  sirrah? 
What  of  that?" 

"The  answer  is  simple,"  I  replied.  "I  am  here  to 
make  atonement  and  to  pay  the  penalty." 

For  a  while  he  seemed  to  forget  me.  He  stood 
brooding  on  the  hearth,  with  his  eyes  on  the  embers, 
preoccupied,  abstracted.    Suddenly  he  turned  to  me. 

"Well,  my  friend,"  he  said  with  his  slow,  inscrut- 
able smile,  "I  really  cannot  afford  to  hang  you. 
But,  for  your  liberty — that  is  another  matter."  He 
turned  to  the  table  and  wrote  a  few  lines  on  a  slip 
of  paper.     Then  he  rang  for  the  guard. 

"Take  this  gentleman  and  this  note  to  the  upper 
guardroom.  I  can  hear  no  more!"  He  interrupted 
what  I  would  say.  "The  matter  is  ended,  M.  de 
Berault.     Be  thankful." 

At  the  door  of  the  guardroom  the  attendant  gave 
me  the  note,  and  signed  for  me  to  enter.  As  I  did 
so  I  halted  in  utter  amazement  and  confusion.  Be- 
fore me,  alone,  just  risen  from  a  chair,  with  her  face 
one  moment  pale,  the  next  suffused  with  blushes, 
stood  Mile,  de  Cocheforet.     I  cried  out  her  name. 


BERAULT  305 

"M.  de  Berault,"  said  she,  visibly  trembling,  "you 
did  not  expect  to  see  me?" 

"I  expected  to  see  no  one  so  little,"  I  managed  to 
say. 

"Yet  you  might  have  thought  that  we  would  not 
utterly  desert  you,"  she  replied  with  a  reproachful 
humility  that  went  to  my  heart.  "We  should  have 
been  base  indeed  if  we  had  not  made  some  attempt 
to  save  you.  That  strange  man  has  promised  me 
your  life,  and  I  am  thankful  even  for  that." 

The  thought  that  she  had  abased  herself  for  me 
was  more  than  I  could  bear.  And  then,  too,  I 
thought  of   her  good  name. 

"Mademoiselle!"  I  cried.  "You  have  done  for 
me  a  hundred  times  more  than  I  deserve,  and  have 
made  me  forever  your  debtor.  But  I  wish  you  were 
not  here  where  your  story  will  be  twisted  by  foul 
tongues.  Please,  will  you  set  out  immediately  to 
rejoin  your  friends?  And  so  God  bless  you,  and 
good-by  to  you." 

She  looked  at  me  with  a  kind  of  wonder,  and  a 
growing  smile. 

"It  is  too  late,"  she  said  gently. 

"Too  late?"  I  exclaimed.     "How,  mademoiselle?" 

"Because —  Do  you  remember,  M.  de  Berault, 
what  you  told  me  of  your  love  story  down  by  Agen — 
that  it  could  have  no  happy  ending?  For  the  same 
reason  I  was  not  ashamed  to  tell  mine  to  the  car- 
dinal.    By  this  time  it  is  common  property." 

I  looked  at  her  as  she  stood  facing  me.  Her  eyes 
shone,  but  they  were  downcast. 


3o6       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

"What  did  you  tell  him,  mademoiselle?"  I  whis- 
pered, my  breath  coming  quickly. 

"I  told  him  that  I  loved,"  she  answered  boldly, 
raising  her  clear  eyes  to  mine,  "and  therefore  that 
I  was  not  ashamed  to  be  with  my  lover,  even  in 
prison." 

I  fell  on  my  knees  and  caught  her  hand  before  the 
last  word  had  passed  her  lips.  For  the  moment  I 
forgot  king  and  cardinal,  prison  and  the  future,  all — 
all  except  that  this  woman,  so  pure  and  so  beautiful, 
so  far  above  me  in  all  things,  had  given  me  her  love. 
It  was  like  an  impossible  dream. 

I  was  wholly  unworthy  of  her,  and  told  her  so, 
but  she  would  not  listen.  The  cardinal's  note  had 
fallen  to  the  floor. 

"Open  it!"  she  cried,  turning  pale  as  she  spoke. 
"Let  us  read  the  book  of  fate!" 

It  ran  thus: 

"The  king's  pleasure  is  that  M.  de  Berault,  hav- 
ing mixed  himself  up  with  affairs  of  state,  retire 
forthwith  to  the  chateau  of  Cocheforet  and  confine 
himself  within  its  limits  until  the  king's  pleasure  be 
further  known.  "Richelieu." 

We  were  married  next  day;  and  Cocheforet  was 
Eden  over  again  for  my  bride  and  me.  And  I 
thanked  God  every  day  that  I  did  not  fail  what 
time  my  testing  came,  but  that  I  had  kept  my  honor. 
I  thanked  God,  I  say,  albeit  I  did  not  in  any  wise 
deserve  my  unspeakable  reward. 


LORNA  DOONE 

T  LOVE  to  tell  the  story,  so  much  of  my  own 
-■-  happiness  does  it  bring  to  mind.  And  if  I, 
John  Ridd,  yeoman,  of  the  county  of  Somerset,  but 
little  versed  in  the  art  of  fine  writing,  tell  the  story 
in  halting  words,  yet  I  dare  to  hope  that  many 
besides  my  own  kinsfolk  will  read  it  with  pleasure. 
As  I  look  back  over  the  years  that  are  behind  me 
there  is  one  good  thing  that  comes  to  me  out  of 
them.  It  is  this,  and  I  often  say  it,  "Verily,  I  believe 
in  God;  and  I  think  it  is  because  I  believe  in  love." 

It  was  in  the  year  of  grace  1660  that  I  was  born 
and  thence  grew  up,  a  strong  lad,  upon  the  plains 
of  Exmoor.  At  the  school  at  Tiverton,  along  with 
the  sons  of  gentlemen,  I  learned  some  Latin  and  a 
few  other  things;  so  that  I  was  far  from  being  an 
ignorant  peasant  as  were  most  of  our  neighbors  in 
those  days.  I  grew  to  a  great  stature  and  of  giant 
strength,  and  became  known  throughout  Somerset 
and  Devon  as  "the  great  John  Ridd."  And  I  want 
to  add — although  it  becomes  me  to  be  modest  in 
speaking  of  myself — that  I  have  ever  kept  my  good 
name.  I  can  say  before  Heaven  that  there  is  naught 
in  my  life  that  I  would  be  abashed  to  have  known 
by  my  mother  and  my  sister  Annie. 

But  this  is  the  story  of  Lorna  Doone,  and  I  must 
tell  of  the  romantic  home  of  her  youth  and  of  the 
tribe  of  the  Doones  from  which  she  took  her  name. 

20  307 


3o8       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

It  is  indeed  a  strange  story.  About  the  year  of  our 
Lord  1640  there  were  troublous  times,  and  some 
estates  in  the  north  of  England  were  confiscated. 
One  man  thus  dispossessed  —  Sir  Ensor  Doone  — 
became  an  outlaw,  through  some  violence  ensuing 
and,  with  his  family  and  retainers  —  about  a  score 
in  all  —  he  left  that  region,  swearing  hard  at  every- 
body. He  turned  his  face  toward  Somerset  and 
Devon,  knowing  that  it  was  a  w^ld  and  rugged 
country,  and  close  upon  Exmoor  he  found  a  place 
which  seemed  almost  created  for  him ;  a  deep,  fertile 
valley  surrounded  on  all  sides  by  clifl  and  crag, 
secure  from  attack  and  entered  by  a  narrow  pass, 
since  called  "the  Doone  Gate."  Here  they  took 
possession  and,  in  the  course  of  years,  increased  in 
numbers.  And,  you  must  understand,  they  lived 
by  preying  upon  the  country.  Throughout  our 
region  they  bore  a  dark  name;  they  were  haughty, 
daring,  cruel,  scorning  God  and  man;  until  every 
mother  clasped  her  child  and  every  man  turned 
pale  at  mention  of  the  Doones. 

One  day  when  I  was  fourteen,  or  maybe  fifteen, 
I  set  out  to  spear  some  fish  in  the  Bagworthy  River. 
It  is  quite  a  stream,  but  shoal  except  in  the  channel, 
and  I  waded  on  and  on,  a  long  way  up,  but  much 
farther  than  I  had  been  before.  The  water  was 
cold  and  I  was  cold,  but  still  I  kept  on,  why  I  scarcely 
know.  I  look  back  upon  it  with  quickened  heart- 
beat, for  the  fate  of  my  life  hung  upon  my  course. 
The  course  of  the  river  was  through  a  dense  forest. 
At  length  I  came  to  a  dark  whirlpool  full  of  danger 


LORNA   DOONE  309 

and  saw  ahead  of  me  a  long,  steep  cascade  of  one 
hundred  yards.  And  I  said  to  myself,  "John  Ridd, 
the  sooner  you  get  yourself  out  by  the  way  you 
came  the  better  it  will  be  for  you."  But  having 
begun  the  ascent  I  found  I  must  keep  on  or  be 
washed  into  the  pool  to  my  death.  So,  having 
said  the  Lord's  Prayer,  which  was  all  I  knew — and 
making  a  bad  job  of  it — I  labored  hard  to  win  out. 
But  my  legs  became  numb,  I  fell  on  the  slippery 
footing,  and  clawed  and  scrambled  in  most  desperate 
way.  How  I  did  it  I  know  not;  but  I  did  not  love 
to  die  and,  though  the  ascent  was  steep  and  the 
water  a  torrent,  and  a  bad  cramp  in  my  limbs,  yet 
by  putting  forth  all  my  desperate  strength  I  reached 
the  upper  bank  and  fell  unconscious. 

When  I  opened  my  eyes  the  loveliest  creature  in 
the  world  was  bending  over  me  and  the  sweetest 
voice  I  had  ever  heard  whispered  low,  ' '  Oh,  I  am  so 
glad!  Now  you  will  try  to  be  better,  won't  you?" 
Her  large,  dark  eyes  were  bent  upon  me — those 
wonderful  eyes!  shall  I  ever,  ever  forget  them — and 
where  the  black  shower  of  her  hair  fell  on  the  turf, 
among  it,  like  an  early  star,  was  the  first  primrose 
of  the  season.  And  since  that  day,  through  all  the 
rough  storms  of  my  life,  I  think  of  her  and  of  God 
and  of  love  whenever  I  see  an  early  primrose. 

Perhaps  she  liked  my  countenance;  and  indeed  I 
know  she  did  because  she  told  me  so  afterwards  and 
how  she  pitied  me  in  my  half-dead  condition.  But 
I  was  soon  myself  again  and  laughed  at  my  plight. 
Still  as  I  looked  at  her  I  was  spellbound  with  wonder; 


310       FIGURES  FAMED   IN   FICTION 

for,  boy  as  I  was,  I  could  see,  plain  as  anything 
could  be,  that  she  was  a  lady  born.  There  was  that 
in  her  bearing — although  but  a  mere  girl  —  that 
told  me  she  was  a  thousand  years  in  front  of  me.  I 
was  but  a  yeoman  lad  after  all.  They  might  have 
taken  me  and  trained  me  until  it  was  time  for  me 
to  die;  yet  never  could  I  have  got  that  look  upon 
my  face  and  that  carriage  of  the  head  which  she  had 
naturally  by  the  fact  of  her  birth.  And  besides  her 
dress  was  pretty  enough  for  the  queen  of  all  the 
angels. 

"What  is  your  name?"  I  asked  when  I  could 
find  my  voice. 

"Lorna  Doone,"  she  murmured  low,  and  with 
bowed  head.     "I  thought  you  must  have  known  it." 

And  then  it  dawned  on  me  that  I  had  penetrated 
the  Doone  Glen.  The  next  moment  there  were 
cries  of  several  men  searching  for  the  child.  ' '  Queen ! 
Queen!"  they  called.  Child  though  she  was,  she 
was  alarmed  for  me.  She  hastily  pointed  out  a 
secret  cave  through  which  I  might  escape;  and  our 
interview  was  over. 

The  fright  I  got  there  lasted  me  some  time,  I 
can  tell  you.  As  for  the  beautiful  child,  it  was 
years  before  I  saw  her  again.  Not  that  I  did  not 
think  of  her  and  very  often,  and  wish  to  see  her; 
but  I  was  only  a  boy  as  yet  and  therefore  inclined 
to  despise  young  girls,  who  were  well  enough  in  their 
way,  perhaps,  but  who  for  the  most  part  were 
meant  to  stand  aside  and  listen  to  orders. 

And  so  the  summers  and  the  winters  went  by 


LORN  A   DOONE  311 

until,  seven  years  after,  the  Doones  having  done 
some  highwayman  work  that  set  Exmoor  ablaze, 
some  of  us  set  out  through  the  Bagworthy  forest  to 
climb  if  possible  to  the  summit  of  the  cliffs  that 
walled  in  Glen  Doone.  We  managed  to  reach  it 
when,  far  out  on  the  other  side,  I  saw  a  lithe,  beauti- 
ful figure  in  white  pass  to  the  secret  cave  where  I 
had  last  seen  the  child  with  the  wonderful  eyes 
whom  I  had  never  quite  forgotten.  Just  a  glimpse, 
and  she  was  gone.  Yet  in  that  moment  my  heart 
beat  like  a  war  drum,  all  my  blood  was  in  my  face, 
and  pride  within  me  fought  with  shame.  Seven 
years  had  gone,  and  I  from  boyhood  had  come  to 
manhood;  and  I  knew  well  enough,  though  I  could 
scarce  have  put  it  into  words,  that  I  was  face  to 
face  with  fate  in  Lorna  Doone. 

Do  I  need  to  say  that  the  next  day,  or  maybe  the 
next  but  one,  I  climbed  the  rocky,  steep  cascade 
again!  Before  I  got  sight  of  her  I  heard  her  sing- 
ing; the  tremulous  thrill  of  it,  sweeter  than  thrush 
or  ouzel  ever  wooed  a  mate  in !  By  the  side  of  the 
stream  she  was  coming  toward  the  place  where  I 
was  waiting,  and  I  marked  again  the  grace  of  her 
carriage  as  of  a  princess  born.  Suddenly  seeing  me 
she  turned  to  fly,  when  I  fell  on  the  grass,  even  as  I 
had  done  on  that  day,  seven  years  gone,  and  just 
said,  ' '  Lorna  Doone ! ' ' 

She  knew  me  at  once;  but  said  with  some  con- 
straint and  maidenly  reserve,  looking  away  the 
while,  "I  think.  Master  Ridd,  you  cannot  know 
what  the  dangers  of  this  place  are  and  the  nature 


312        FIGURES   FAMED   IN    FICTION 

of  the  people,"  and  I  could  see  that  she  trembl©d 
with  fear  lest  I  should  be  discovered.  It  occurred 
to  me,  moreover,  to  leave  her  without  more  ado, 
assuring  her  that  I  would  come  again.  Thus  would 
she  keep  me  in  mind  in  looking  for  me,  for  well  I 
knew  her  life  there  must  be  lonely. 

That  week  I  could  do  little  more  than  dream  and 
dream  and  rove  about,  seeking  by  perpetual  change 
to  find  the  way  back  to  myself.  Every  one  laughed 
at  me,  not  being  able  to  comprehend  the  greatness 
of  it  all  nor  the  loftiness;  and  John  Fry,  for  the 
sake  of  being  bright,  declared  that  a  mad  dog  had 
bitten  me. 

Oh,  goodness !  That  was  too  much !  To  make  a 
mad  dog  of  Lorna  and  to  count  the  raising  of  my 
soul  no  more  than  hydrophobia!  John  Fry  got  so 
sound  a  thrashing  that  he  was  laid  up  for  one  day, 
or  maybe  two. 

But  I  could  not  settle  it,  turn  and  twist  it  how  I 
would,  how  soon  I  should  again  visit  Glen  Doone. 
I  waited  for  weeks,  torn  between  doubt  and  love 
and  fear.  And  the  upshot  of  it  all  was  this;  that 
as  my  life  was  good  for  nothing  with  no  word  of  her 
or  sight  of  her,  forth  I  must  again  to  find  her  and 
say  more  than  a  man  can  tell. 

' '  Master  Ridd !  Are  you  mad  ? "  she  cried.  ' '  They 
will  soon  pass  this  way.  Quick,  if  you  care  for  life ! 
Let  me  hide  you!"  It  was  a  grotto  which  she  called 
her  bower,  a  cave  in  the  great  cliff.  No  man  of  the 
Doones  did  dream  of  such  a  place,  and  we  were  safe. 
I  had  brought  her  a  little  present,  and  she  was 


LORNA  DOONE  313 

touched,  confessing  herself  unused  to  kindness,  and 
in  the  course  of  our  brief  talk  she  wept  a  little. 
Now  while  I  worshiped  her,  esteeming  her  more 
sacred  than  did  Israel  the  ark  of  the  covenant,  her 
grief  and  confusion  made  me  long  to  comfort  her, 
but  something  said  within  my  heart,  "John  Ridd, 
be  on  thy  best  manners  with  this  lonely  maiden!" 
She  liked  me  the  better  for  my  forbearance — as  in- 
deed she  told  me  afterwards — and  then,  in  response 
to  my  questioning  she  told  me,  with  that  sweet 
dignity — that  native  princess  air — all  the  sad  story 
of  her  life.  Her  mother  was  long  dead.  Her  grand- 
father. Sir  Ensor  Doone,  was  growing  feeble  with 
years.  The  Doones  were  turbulent;  more  than  one 
of  them  aspired  to  her  hand,  chief  among  them  the 
awful  Carver  Doone.  She  had  no  near,  true  friend 
among  them;  and  sometimes  she  wondered  in  her 
soul  what  would  the  future  be. 

But  I  must  needs  go,  for  the  dusk  was  coming; 
and  to  quiet  her  fears  for  me  I  promised  not  to  come 
again  for  a  long  time.  And  I  told  her  where  to 
throw  a  dark  shawl  on  the  white  rock  as  a  signal 
if  she  should  need  me.  I  knew  very  well  that  she 
would  not  come  to  love  me  for  a  long  time  yet — if 
ever  —  and  I  said  to  myself,  "Thou  peasant  lad, 
she  is  a  princess  born.  Be  thou  of  high  honor;  be 
brave  and  be  patient  also.  If  God  wills — not 
otherwise — thy  time  shall  come." 

And  right  at  that  time  I  had  a  summons  to  Lon- 
don by  king's  messenger  to  tell  what  I  knew  of 
those  disturbers  of  his  majesty's  peace,  the  Doones. 


314       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

It  was  a  long  journey,  and  they  kept  me  there  so 
long  before  they  questioned  me  that  I  thought  for 
certain  they  had  forgotten  me;  and  when  they  did 
hold  inquisition  it  was  nothing  at  all,  except  to  ask 
questions  that  anybody  in  Exmoor  could  answer. 
"With  all  this,  and  the  long  journey,  it  was  weeks 
and  weeks  before  I  saw  her  again. 

I  fretted  and  fretted  about  my  angel  of  the  Doone 
Glen,  and  the  first  chance  I  got  I  climbed  to  the 
crest  of  the  highland  and  there,  sure  enough,  the 
dark  mantle  lay  on  the  w^hite  stone,  the  sign  that 
she  needed  me.  Nothing  could  stop  me!  I  went 
by  the  old  way  of  the  river  and  the  cascade — a 
long  circuit  —  and  finally  stood  again  in  the  Glen. 
After  long  waiting  I  saw  her  and,  for  the  soul  of  me, 
knew  not  what  to  say.  At  last  the  common  words 
came  to  my  lips. 

"Mistress  Lorna,  I  had  hope  you  were  in  need  of 
me." 

"Oh,  yes;  but  that  was  long  ago,  two  long  months 
or  more,  sir,"  and  saying  this  she  looked  away  as  if 
it  were  all  over. 

I  cannot  tell  you  what  I  felt — it  was  a  kind  of 
dumb  despair — but  as  I  turned  to  go  I  could  not 
help  one  stupid  sob,  though  mad  with  myself  for 
allowing  it,  and  it  told  a  world  of  things.  Lorna 
heard  it,  and  ran  to  me  with  her  bright  eyes  full  of 
pity. 

"Master  Ridd,  I  did  not  mean  to  vex  you,"  she 
whispered  as  if  to  comfort  me. 

I  looked  at  her  in  a  way  she  could  not  mistake  if 


LORNA   DOONE  315 

she  would;  and  with  the  power  of  my  love  thus 
abiding  on  her  she  could  not  look  at  me,  and  was 
put  out  with  herself.  I  tried  to  learn  my  fate.  But 
no.  She  liked  me  very  much;  she  declared  me  to 
be  a  kind,  brave,  honest  youth;  and  for  changing  of 
the  subject  she  told  me  why  she  had  given  the  sig- 
nal that  she  had  need  of  me.  They  wanted  her  to 
promise  to  wed  the  young  giant  Carver  Doone,  as  rank 
a  villain  as  ever  cursed  the  kingdom.  Some  were  for 
using  force  with  her,  but  old  Sir  Ensor  Doone  would 
not  hear  of  it.  And  here  she  was  in  evil  case;  spied 
upon  and  followed,  and  her  life  made  a  burden. 

I  tried  to  comfort  her  what  way  I  could.  The 
words  were  blundering  but  honest.  And  at  last  I 
managed  to  slip  upon  her  finger  a  ring  of  sapphire 
and  pearls.  I  had  brought  it  from  London.  She 
blushed  with  pleasure,  then  gravely  shook  her  head 
as,  with  large  tears  in  her  eyes,  she  kissed  it  and 
gave  it  back  to  me. 

"John,  I  dare  not  take  it  now;  I  should  be  cheat- 
ing you.  Keep  it  for  me,  will  you?  Something 
tells  me  I  shall  wish  to  wear  it  some  day,"  and  then 
she  dismissed  me,  with  such  quiet  command  of  her- 
self, yet  with  beginning  of  quick  blushes  which  she 
tried  to  laugh  away.  You  may  think  me  a  great 
egotist — as  they  say  who  know  Latin — but  I 
knew,  as  in  a  glory,  that  some  day  this  princess 
would  come  to  love  me. 

Now  if  you  think  I  am  going  to  tell  you  of  that 
sacred  time  and  the  holy  joy  of  it  when  Princess 
Lorna  confessed  her  love  for  me,  you  are  very  much 


3i6       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

mistaken.  How,  at  my  insistent  question,  she 
glanced  up  shyly  through  her  fluttering  lashes  as  if 
to  prolong  my  doubt  one  moment  and  then  opened 
upon  me  all  the  glorious  depth  and  softness  of  her 
loving  eyes  as  she  told  me  what  I  longed  to  know. 
As  I  walked  homeward  the  glory  of  the  morning 
upon  the  w^oods  and  the  river  seemed  to  tell  of  God 
and  hope  and  love;  every  flower  and  bud  and  bird 
had  a  fluttering  sense  of  them.  So,  perhaps,  will 
break  upon  us  that  Eternal  morning  when  wood  and 
vale  and  river  shall  be  no  more;  whose  glory  will 
be  the  glory  of  love  and  all  things  pure  because  it  is 
the  glory  of  God. 

After  this  I  watched  for  her  signals  and  saw  her 
when  I  could.  Suddenly  the  signals  ceased.  Three 
times  I  waited  long  at  our  meeting  place  in  the 
Glen,  but  no  light  footstep  sounded;  all  was  lonely, 
dreary,  and  drenched  with  a  sudden  desolation.  It 
seemed  as  if  my  love  were  dead,  and  the  winds  were 
at  her  funeral.  Where  was  she  if  she  were  living? 
God  knew  what  trouble  might  have  come  upon  her. 
Verily,  it  was  no  time  for  the  balance  of  this  or  that, 
for  a  man  with  blood  and  nerve  to  rub  his  nose  and 
ponder.  If  I  left  my  Lorna  so;  if  the  heart  that 
clave  to  mine  could  find  no  vigor  in  it — but  what 
need  of  words  ?  Suffice  it  to  say  that  the  next  night 
I  passed  the  sentries  at  the  Doone  Gate,  penetrated 
to  the  heart  of  their  camp,  and  stood  under  Lorna's 
window.  I  knew  the  house  from  her  description. 
When  she  came  to  the  window  she  could  hardly 
believe  her  ears  as  I  whispered  her  name. 


LORNA   DOONE  317 

* '  Why,  John !    Are  you  mad  ?     The  sentries ! ' ' 

"Do  you  think  I  would  forget  you?  Of  course 
you  knew  I  would  come." 

"Well,  yes,  I  thought,  perhaps — but,  John!" 

Her  new  trouble  was  this:  Sir  Ensor  Doone  was 
ill  and  near  to  death.  Carver  Doone  was  master  of 
the  Glen  and  she  had  barred  the  house  in  fear  of  him. 

"The  only  thing  to  do  now,  John,  is  to  watch  for 
my  signals,"  she  said.  "I  can  trust  my  little  maid 
to  give  them.  If  they  force  the  house  you  will 
find  me  unharmed  if  you  come  in  season.  If  too 
late  you  will  have  no  cause  to  blush  for  me,"  and  I 
saw  a  gleaming  knife  in  the  darkness. 

Not  many  days  thereafter  I  was  astounded  by  a 
summons  from  Lorna's  little  maid  in  person.  Sir 
Ensor  Doone  was  dying,  and  must  see  me.  It  seems 
Loma  had  told  him  of  me.  As  I  stood  before  him — 
for,  accompanied  by  Lorna's  maid,  the  sentries  let 
me  pass —  "Ah!"  said  the  old  man,  with  a  voice 
that  seemed  to  come  from  a  cavern  of  skeletons, 
"are  you  that  great  John  Ridd?" 

"John  Ridd  is  my  name,  your  honor;  and  I  hope 
your  worship  is  better." 

"Child!"  he  exclaimed.  "Have  you  sense  enough 
to  know  what  you  have  been  doing?" 

"I  know  right  well,"  I  answered,  "that  I  have 
set  my  eyes  above  my  rank." 

"Know  you,  sir,  that  Lorna  Doone  is  bom  of  one 
of  the  oldest  families  of  northern  Europe?" 

"I  knew  not  that,  your  honor,  but  I  knew  of  her 
high  descent  from  the  Doones." 


3i8       FIGURES   FAMED   TX   FICTION 

"And  what  about  your  own  low  descent  from  the 
Ridds  of  Devon'" 

"Sir,"  said  I,  something  of  the  dare-devil  getting 
into  me,  "the  Ridds  of  Devon  have  been  honest 
men  twice  as  long  as  the  Doones  have  been  rogues." 

"Well,  well,"  said  he,  "perhaps  thou  art  not 
altogether  the  clumsy  yokel  that  I  took  thee  for"; 
and  then  Loma  sang  my  praises  with  a  spirit  and  a 
love  that  dared  anything.  The  old  man  was  dumb 
for  a  moment,  and  then  declared  that  we  were  a 
pair  of  fools  anyway.  I  think  it  pleased  Lorna  that 
he  did  not  sternly  forbid  our  union,  as  he  had  surely 
meant  to  do. 

Very  soon  thereafter  came  on  that  great  winter 
which  the  old  men  have  not  forgotten.  There  was 
snow!  snow!  snowM  mountains  of  snow!  The  air 
was  full  of  snow.  That  three  weeks'  snowstorm 
piled  the  country  full.  Not  that  it  snowed  night 
and  day,  but  nearly  that.  And  I  should  never  have 
found  my  way  to  the  Doone  Glen  had  it  not  been 
for  the  trick  of  snowshoes  of  which  I  had  read  and 
which  I  made  after  a  rude  fashion.  I  have  also 
somewhere  read  that  nothing  is  impossible  to  love. 
I  know  not  the  truth  of  that,  but  I  know  what  I 
felt  in  my  soul;  and,  as  I  have  said  once  before, 
nothing  could  stop  me ! 

It  seems  almost  like  a  dream  to  me  now,  that 
voyage  of  mine  over  the  mountains  of  snow  and  my 
discovery  at  the  end;  how  I  found  my  Lorna  starv- 
ing, for  thus  was  Carver  Doone  seeking  to  force  her 
into  submission.     Then  I  knew  the  time  had  come 


LORNA   DOONE  319 

for  the  one,  last,  desperate  thing.  I  must  come  by 
night  to  the  rescue  and  take  her  from  among  them, 
cost  what  it  might. 

How  I  came  on  snowshoes  with  my  big  sled  and 
fur  robes,  and  came  not  one  moment  too  soon, 
seems  like  another  dream.  The  strength  of  ten  men 
was  in  me  as  I  drew  my  traces  tight  and  took  my 
load  over  the  mountains  of  snow  to  my  mother's 
home.  What  with  her  starved  condition  and  her 
fright,  Lorna  slept  or  fainted,  I  knew  not  which. 
But  when,  arrived  in  our  great  hall,  I  turned  back 
the  fur  robes  and  uncovered  the  fairest  face  in  the 
British  kingdom,  my  sleeping  princess  went  straight 
to  my  mother's  heart.  "God  bless  her,  John,"  she 
cried,  kissing  her  on  the  forehead  while  she  wept 
for  pity  and  partly  for  joy. 

But  it  was  not  many  days  before  the  Doones 
found  her  out  and  made  a  night  attack.  I  made 
out  Carver  Doone  in  the  moonlight;  I  raised  my 
gun,  and  my  aim  was  sure  as  death.  But  I  have 
ever  had  a  dread  of  killing  my  fellow-man.  I 
could  not  bring  myself  to  shoot.  Instead,  I  plunged 
across  the  yard — 't  was  a  miracle  they  did  not  shoot 
me — took  Carver  Doone  by  the  beard,  and  asked 
him  if  he  called  himself  a  man.  He  tried  a  pistol 
on  me,  but  I  was  too  quick  for  him.  Then  by  a 
trick  of  the  inner  heel  I  flung  him  upon  his  back 
and  bade  him  begone!  The  rest  fled  at  seeing  him 
down,  and  he  was  fain  to  follow. 

Now  came  about  a  most  astounding  piece  of  — 
detective  work,  shall  I  call  it? — which  let  the  light 


320       FIGURES  FAMED   IN   FICTION 

in  on  everything  and  changed  the  face  of  the  world. 
A  friend  of  mine,  on  one  of  his  long  journeys  spend- 
ing a  nightin  a  cottage  for  want  of  an  inn,  came 
upon  a  discovery  that  considerably  astonished  him. 
The  peasant  hostess  was  an  Italian  woman  and  he 
got  her  to  tell  him  the  strange  story  of  her  life.  The 
short  of  it  was  this:  an  English  nobleman  and  his 
lady  were  traveling  in  Italy  and  she — the  Italian 
woman  herself — was  in  their  service.  The  noble- 
man died  of  a  sudden  and  the  lady  with  her  little 
daughter  traveled  to  England  to  claim  the  vast 
estates  and  to  live — by  right  —  in  her  husband's 
castle.  On  the  road  through  Devon  the  coach  was 
robbed,  the  lady  died  from  wounds  and  exposure, 
and  the  robbers  carried  away  the  little  daughter; 
and  the  robbers  were  the  Doones ! 

This  was  Benita's  story  which  my  friend  retold 
to  me.  He  believed  it,  and  so  did  I,  and  between 
us  we  made  out  that  the  little  babe  was  none  other 
than  Lorna  Doone.  When  I  told  Lorna  the  story 
she  wept  bitterly  for  the  fate  of  her  dear  mother 
whom  she  never  knew.  Afterwards  she  thought 
upon  the  mystery  of  her  noble  birth — should  the 
story  prove  to  be  true  —  and  in  her  returning  high 
spirits  would  fain  make  sport  of  me. 

"Ah,  John!  I  am  sorry  for  you.  For  surely  if  I 
have  birth  and  rank  and  wealth  and  all  kinds  of 
grandeur,  you  will  never  dare  to  think  of  me.  Poor 
John!"  She  drew  herself  up  with  that  princess  air, 
gathered  her  robes,  and  gave  me  a  haughty  glance. 
I  watched  her,  amazed  and  grieved  and  well-nigh 


LORN  A  DOONE  321 

heartbroken.     When  she  flew  to  me  in  a  moment. 

"Oh,  you  stupid  John,  you  inexpressibly  stupid 
fellow !  My  dearest  love !  Will  you  never  know  me 
for  what  I  am?" 

In  after  days,  when  I  heard  of  Lorna  as  the  rich- 
est and  noblest  and  loveliest  lady  to  be  found  in 
London,  I  often  recalled  that  little  scene.  Of  course 
it  was  impossible  to  doubt  her,  and  yet  I  was  trou- 
bled. I  knew  what  the  world  of  rank  and  power 
would  have  to  say,  and  how  the  best  and  truest 
people  cannot  shake  themselves  quite  free. 

Of  course  I  followed  up  the  matter.  I  found 
Benita  and  brought  her  home.  As  good  luck  would 
have  it  Lorna  was  the  first  to  meet  us  at  the  gate, 
with  nothing  upon  her  head,  and  her  glorious  hair 
waving  about  her  shoulders.  At  one  glance  the 
old  nurse  knew  her!  "Oh,  the  eyes!  The  eyes!" 
was  her  cry.  Lorna  looked  at  her  with  some  doubt 
and  wonder.  But  when  Benita  said  something  in 
the  Roman  tongue  and  flung  new  hay  from  the  cart 
upon  her  as  if  in  a  romp  of  childhood,  then  some  old 
memory  stirred  to  life.  "Oh,  Nita!  Nita!"  she 
cried,  and  wept  upon  her  in  a  passion  of  recognition. 

We  gathered  from  what  Benita  could  tell  us  that 
Lorna' s  father  was  the  Earl  of  Dugal  and  that  her 
mother  was  of  yet  more  ancient  and  renowned  de- 
scent, being  the  last  in  line  from  the  house  of  Lome. 
In  some  way  unknown  to  us  the  story  got  abroad — 
of  course  it  was  all  over  Exmoor — but  abroad,  I 
mean,  to  London.  And  while  I  was  away  on  a 
long  journey  the  Earl  of  Brandir — her  uncle  and 


322       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

now  appointed  her  guardian — had  sent  for  Lorna 
and  she  was  gone.  Gone,  but  leaving  a  note  for 
me  to  assure  me  that  her  heart  was  true.  I  will 
not  tell  you  all  that  was  in  it— too  sweet  and  sacred 
it  was  to  open  out  to  strangers  —  but  at  the  last  she 
wrote:  "And  now,  my  own  love  and  lord,  of  one 
thing  rest  assured;  no  difference  of  rank  or  fortune 
shall  ever  make  me  swerve  from  truth  to  you.  We 
have  passed  through  too  many  hardships  and  dan- 
gers together  for  doubt  or  evil  to  come  between  us. 
Though  they  tell  you  I  am  false,  and  though  your 
own  mind  harbors  it  from  what  you  see  of  show  and 
grandeur  and  folly,  never,  never  believe  it,  for  I 
am  yours  and  yours  only." 

Nevertheless  when  a  whole  year  went  by  and  I 
had  no  word  from  her,  not  one — what  then?  Why, 
then,  on  I  went  to  London,  for  my  heart  would 
not  be  quiet  and  hope  would  not  die  out  of  me.  It 
did  not  take  me  long  to  learn  that  she  was  the  talk 
of  London — even  the  queen  had  taken  a  liking  to 
her — and  that  she  attended  the  service  at  White- 
hall with  the  court  almost  every  Sunday.  As  I 
stood  with  the  crowd  of  people  in  the  great  chapel 
my  heart  beat  high  when  the  king  and  queen 
entered,  followed  by  the  Duke  of  Norfolk  and  the 
Knights  of  the  Garter.  Then  came  the  queen's 
retinue,  my  Lorna  among  them.  She  walked  mod- 
estly and  shyly,  gowned  in  purest  white,  sweet  and 
simple,  and  though  without  a  single  ornament,  her 
white  hand  bearing  one  red  rose,  she  was  the  star 
among  them  all.     That  carriage  of  the  head,  the 


LORNA   DOONE  323 

way  she  walked,  the  native  princess  air  were  enough 
to  show  at  a  hundred  yards  that  she  was  none  other 
than  Lorna  Doone.  How  my  heart  was  beating! 
Would  she  see  me?  And  if  she  did,  what  then? 
Sure  enough!  She  happened  to  look  up  as  she 
passed  me,  and  her  eyes  met  mine.  Straightway 
she  made  me  the  most  courtly  bow,  the  surge  of 
color  in  her  cheeks  and  an  unpaid  debt  of  tears 
shining  in  her  eyes. 

After  a  little  while  some  one  slipped  a  little  note 
into  my  hand.  I  will  not  be  hired  to  read  it  out  to 
whoever  would  hear,  but  I  will  tell  you  this  much; 
it  shall  lie  with  me  in  my  coffin.  Enough  that,  in 
closing,  my  love  bade  me  come  and  see  her. 

When  I  called  at  Brandir  Hall,  Lorna's  maid 
admitted  me.  While  I  waited — fear  and  hope  so 
entangled  that  they  hindered  each  other — the  vel- 
vet hangings  of  the  doorway  parted  slowly  and 
Lorna  in  her  perfect  beauty  stood  before  me.  She 
stood  still  a  fraction  of  a  second — her  white  gown 
with  the  crimson  background — and  then  came 
toward  me.  I  took  the  hand  she  offered  and  raised 
it  to  my  lips  with  fear,  as  a  thing  too  good  for  me. 

"Is  that  all?"  she  whispered,  her  eyes  gleaming 
up  at  me,  and  in  another  instant  she  was  weeping 
on  my  breast.  "Oh,  John!  How  glad  I  am!"  she 
said  again  and  again,  and  as  for  me,  I  could  only 
pronounce  her  name  many  times,  as  being  so  full 
of  music.  After  a  time  she  drew  back  proudly  and 
proceeded  to  cross-examine  me. 

"Now,  Master  John  Ridd,  you  shall  tell  me  the 
21 


324       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth. 
Why  is  it  that  for  more  than  a  twelve-month  you 
have  taken  not  the  smallest  notice  of  your  old  friend, 
Mistress  Loma  Doone?"  She  spoke  lightly,  but  I 
knew  that  her  soul  was  deeply  stirred. 

"Simply  for  this  cause,"  I  answered,  "that  my 
old  friend  took  not  the  smallest  notice  of  me;  nor 
knew  I  where  to  find  her." 

"What!"  she  cried,  and  asked  me  over  again. 
And  I  told  her  again  that  not  a  word  from  her  had 
reached  me. 

"Oh,  you  poor,  dear  John!"  she  exclaimed,  with 
a  world  of  pity  in  her  voice.  With  that  she  touched 
something  such  as  I  had  not  seen  before,  which 
made  a  ringing  noise  at  a  serious  distance.  Forth- 
with appeared  her  little  maid. 

"Gwenny,"  said  Lorna,  in  a  tone  of  high  rank 
and  dignity,  "go  and  fetch  the  letters  which  I 
gave  you  at  various  times  to  dispatch  to  Mistress 
Ridd." 

She  denied  having  any,  of  course,  but  Lorna 
sternly  faced  her  down  until  she  brought  them  all, 
and  laid  them  before  us.  I  was  astounded  out  of 
measure. 

"Why  did  you  treat  me  so,  Gwenny?"  I  asked. 

"Because  thee  be 'est  below  her  so!  Her  shanna 
have  a  poor  farmarin'  chap!  All  her  land  and  all 
her  birth,  an'  who  be  ye,  I'd  like  to  know?" 

Lorna  reddened  in  anger,  reproved  her  right 
soundly,  and  banished  her  for  three  days.  "It's 
the  only  way  to  punish  her,"  she  explained. 


LORN  A   DOONE  325 

And  then  we  discussed  the  situation. 

"Now,  John,"  said  she,  "in  the  first  place  it  is 
quite  certain  that  neither  of  us  can  be  happy  without 
the  other.  What,  then,  stands  between  us  ?  Worldly 
position  and  nothing  else.  Your  education  is  as 
good  as  mine  and  your  ancestry  as  pure,  only  mine 
is  better  known.  As  for  the  fine  court  gentlemen 
here,  I  distrust  them;  I  doubt  if  they  have  any  soul. 
I  compare  them  with  you.  I  know  you,  John.  I 
have  read  your  soul  through  and  through.  It  is 
pure  as  the  snow,  and  it  is  honest.  Oh,  John,  you 
must  never  forsake  me.     It  would  break  my  heart." 

How  do  you  think  I  felt,  and  what  do  you  think 
I  thought  as  the  star  of  London,  the  admiration 
and  envy  of  the  court,  bent  her  gaze  upon  me  and 
told  me  all  her  heart? 

"Now,"  said  she,  "we  have  talked  a  good  while 
and  you  must  go.  But  when  my  uncle,  the  Earl 
of  Brandir,  comes  home  I  shall  tell  him  that  you 
have  been  here  and  that  I  mean  you  to  come  again." 

As  Lorna  said  this,  in  a  manner  as  confident  as 
need  be,  I  saw  that  she  had  learned  in  London 
the  power  of  her  beauty  and  knew  that  she  could 
do  what  she  would  with  me  or,  for  that  matter, 
with  any  one.  As  she  stood  there,  flushed  with 
pride  and  faith  in  her  own  loveliness — and,  what 
was  more,  radiant  with  love  itself — I  felt  she  had 
power  without  limit.  And  I  went  down  the  broad 
stairs,  wondering  in  my  soul  if  any  man  in  all  Eng- 
land were  so  blessed  as  I. 

But  of  course,  as  you  must  know  without  my 


326       FIGURES  FAMED   IN   FICTION 

saying  it,  I  could  not  well  shake  off  the  sense  of 
her  rank  and  station,  and  it  brought  me  distress  of 
mind.  Was  I  not  just  a  yeoman,  anyway?  Could 
I  help  thinking  it  over,  with  this  distress  of  mind 
of  which  I  was  speaking?  However,  just  in  my 
greatest  need  something  happened  to  bring  me,  not 
only  much  of  comfort  but  of  confidence  also;  and 
this  was  the  way  of  it. 

One  evening  as  I  was  leaving  the  earl's  house 
after  a  visit  to  Lorna  I  espied  three  villainous  look- 
ing fellows  skulking  around  the  comer.  They  saw 
me,  but  I  struck  out  on  the  London  road  and,  when 
far  out  of  sight,  fetched  a  wide  compass  and,  two 
hours  before  midnight,  took  up  my  position  in  the 
shrubbery  near  the  earl's  mansion.  And  sure 
enough,  the  men  appeared,  effected  an  entrance, 
and  I  followed  them.  To  make  a  long  story  short, 
I  struck  down  one  of  them,  and  when  another  drew 
his  pistol  I  caught  up  the  prostrate  man  and  used 
him  for  a  shield.  The  shot  finished  him,  and  then 
I  had  it  all  my  own  way.  I  took  the  two  men  in  a 
grip  they  had  never  known  before — I  well  know 
that — brought  them  together  with  some  force,  and 
then  bound  them  together,  and  I  swear  I  wound 
the  ropes  good  and  tight ! 

Now  it  fell  out  that  these  three  men  were  the 
blackest  rogues  in  the  kingdom,  and  the  king  was 
much  concerned  to  lay  hands  upon  them.  There- 
fore, hearing  of  all  this — which  I  suspect  lost  noth- 
ing in  the  telling — what  does  his  majesty  do  but 
send  for  me  to  come  to  him  immediately.     So  I 


LORN  A  DOONE  327 

put  on  my  best  clothes,  hired  a  fashionable  hair- 
dresser, drank  half  a  gallon  of  ale — for  my  hands 
were  shaking  —  and  wished  myself  well  out  of  it. 

Well,  his  majesty  talked  with  me,  and  bantered 
me,  and  also  thanked  me;  and  to  repay  me  for  my 
loyal  service — what  was  coming  I  knew  not — he 
called  to  some  men  in  waiting  and  they  brought  him 
a  little  sword,  such  as  my  sister  Annie  would  skewer 
a  turkey  with.  Then  he  signified  to  me  to  kneel — 
which  I  did,  after  dusting  the  floor  for  the  sake  of 
my  best  breeches — and  he  laid  the  sword  very 
lightly  on  my  shoulder  and  said,  "Arise,  Sir  John 
Ridd!" 

The  astounding  good  fortune  of  it!  The  King  of 
England  had  knighted  me,  and  now  I  could  hold 
up  my  head  with  the  lords  and,  for  that  matter, 
with  the  ladies  too!  I  knew  well  that  it  made 
Lorna  proud  of  me,  although  she  never  said  so,  but 
called  me  "Sir  John"  so  constantly,  with  fun  in 
the  corner  of  her  eye,  that  I  was  almost  cross  with 
her.  Still,  the  great  good  fortune  of  it!  A  kind 
heaven  knew  I  needed  some  such  dignity  to  help 
me  in  my  difficult  position. 

When  I  returned  home  from  London  it  was  with 
no  doubt  in  my  heart.  And  when,  after  a  long 
time,  Lorna  herself  came  also,  she  seemed  as  glad 
as  a  bird  to  be  back  again. 

"Oh,  I  do  love  it  all  so  much!"  she  kept  saying, 
"the  scent  of  the  gorse  on  the  moors  and  the  prim- 
roses under  the  hedges!" 

She  ran  about  here  and  there,  delighting  in  the 
21a 


328       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

chickens  and  the  ponies,  and  where  was  her  old 
friend  the  cat  ?  All  the  house  was  full  of  brightness, 
as  if  the  sun  had  come  over  the  hill  and  Loma  was 
his  mirror.  Her  queenly  ways — queenly  and  art- 
less at  the  same  time — her  tears  springing  out  of 
smiles,  her  unaffected  goodness,  and  last,  her  sweet 
love  of  me —  "Surely,"  said  I  to  myself,  "this  is 
too  fine  to  last,  for  a  man  who  never  deserved  it." 

Seeing  no  way  out  of  this,  I  resolved  to  place  my 
faith  in  God,  and  so  went  to  bed  and  dreamed  of  it. 
And  having  no  presence  of  mind  to  pray  for  any- 
thing, I  fell  asleep  before  I  knew  it,  and  the  roof 
above  swarmed  with  angels,  for  was  not  Loma 
under  it ! 

After  long  months  the  day  came  for  the  wedding. 
Our  church  was  crowded  to  the  doors,  and  the  Lady 
Loma  Dugal  was  the  bride.  She  looked  so  lovely 
that  I  was  afraid  of  glancing  at  her.  Surely  it  was 
an  angel!  And  then  when  all  was  done,  the  ring 
and  the  promises,  and  Loma  turned  her  eyes  full 
upon  me — those  wonderful,  glorious,  soul-awakened 
eyes — the  sound  of  a  shot  rang  through  the  church 
and  a  mist  came  over  them!  I  caught  her  in  my 
arms.  I  petted  her  and  coaxed  her,  but  it  was  no 
good ;  there  was  her  bright  blood  on  the  altar  steps ! 
It  was  with  a  heart  of  stone  that  I  laid  her  in  my 
mother's  arms  and  went  forth  to  my  revenge.  I 
do  not  love  the  shedding  of  blood,  and  I  do  not  be- 
lieve God  loves  it,  and  yet  I  was  a  human  being; 
that  is  all  I  can  say. 

Of  course  I  knew  who  had  done  it;  only  one  man 


LORNA  DOONE  329 

within  my  knowledge  could  have  done  the  damnable 
thing.  I  mounted  our  wild  horse  that  nobody  could 
ride  but  I  and,  without  a  single  weapon,  rode  forth 
just  to  find  out  this, — whether  in  this  world  there  be 
or  be  not  a  God  of  Justice.  I  forbear  to  tell  the 
awful  story  of  the  death  of  Carver  Doone.  He  shot 
me,  but  there  was  a  God,  and  I  had  the  strength 
to  do  what  was  to  be.  I  had  likewise  the  strength  to 
ride  home  and  to  ask  to  see  my  dead  bride ;  and  then 
they  made  me  know  she  was  not  dead,  but  hovering 
in  the  shadow  of  death  all  the  same,  and  they  led  me 
away  to  be  healed  myself,  for  a  darkness  was  com- 
ing over  me. 

And  here  it  will  take  me  but  a  moment  to  tell  a 
sweet  little  story — as  sweet  as  any  I  ever  read  in 
books — which  comes  to  me  as  if  it  were  right  out 
of  yesterday.  In  the  days  when  I  first  knew  and 
loved  my  Lorna,  my  cousin  Ruth  of  Dulverton,  a 
lovely  maid  and  with  a  heart  of  gold,  grew  to  love 
me  dearly  and  without  my  knowing  it.  When  I 
first  brought  my  Lorna  home  and  her  nearness  to 
me  began  to  be  talked  of  everywhere — poor  Ruth! 
her  heart  was  nigh  to  breaking.  I  know  this,  for 
they  told  me  so  afterwards.  But  when  the  time 
came  that  they  took  Lorna  away  to  London,  and 
I  was  desolate,  Ruth  was  the  very  one  that  gave 
me  courage.  I  was  saying  to  her,  with  what  show 
of  indifference  my  pride  could  muster,  that  I  must 
do  my  best  to  forget  Lorna  Doone,  as  being  so  far 
above  me, — 

"You  must  not  talk  like  that,  John,"  said  Ruth, 


330       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

in  a  low  and  gentle  tone  and  turning  away  her  eyes 
from  me.  "No  lady  can  be  above  a  man  who  is 
pure  and  brave  and  gentle.  You  should  follow  her, 
show  her  that  you  are  true  to  her,  and  if  her  heart 
be  worth  having  she  will  give  you  loving  welcome." 
And  even  while  she  said  it  her  heart  was  almost 
breaking!     I  know  it  now  but  did  not  then. 

And  now  when  I  had  left  my  Lorna  for  dead — 
they  told  me  of  it  afterwards — sweet  Ruth  came 
forward  and  took  command.  She  made  them  bear 
the  body  home.  With  her  own  deHcate  fingers  she 
probed  the  wound  and  found  the  bullet.  She  bade 
them  fetch  her  Spanish  wine,  and  she  gave  a  little, 
and  again  a  little.  Everybody  was  saying  it  was  of 
no  use,  when  a  short,  low  sigh  made  them  look  and 
wonder.  For  hours  and  days  Lorna  lay  at  the  door 
of  death,  and  sweet  Ruth  was  her  ministering  angel. 
It  was  Ruth's  tenderness  and  faithfulness,  never 
relaxed  for  a  single  moment  through  all  those  weary 
hours,  that  by  God's  mercy  saved  her.  I  have  read 
in  books  of  beautiful  deeds  that  almost  bring  me  to 
tears,  but  I  never  read  of  anything  more  beautiful. 
Dear,  dear  Ruth,  Ruth  of  the  sore  heart,  Ruth 
almost  wearing  her  life  out  to  save  Lorna  to  be  my 
bride!  Oh,  but  we  love  her,  Lorna  and  I,  with  a 
love  that  earth  knows  little  of  and  cannot  under- 
stand anyway.  It  was  Ruth  who  brought  Lorna 
to  my  room — for  she  recovered  long  before  I  did — 
and  closing  the  door  upon  us  left  us  together  in  our 
joy.  When  I  grew  stronger  Lorna  told  me  of  her 
sweet  nurse  and  of  her  own  unspeakable  gratitude 


LORNA  DOONE  331 

to  her  for  what  she  had  done.  We  keep  a  place  by 
our  fireside  for  the  dear  soul  whenever  she  will  come, 
and  we  make  her  to  understand  that  we  know  angels 
from  common  mortals. 

This,  then,  is  my  story;  told  in  halting  words,  it 
is  true,  but  I  dare  to  hope  that  all  who  believe 
in  pure  hearts  will  read  it  with  pleasure.  And  I 
repeat  what  I  said  at  the  beginning.  There  is  one 
good  thing  that  comes  to  me  out  of  the  years  that 
are  behind  me.  It  is  this,  and  I  often  say  it,  "Verily, 
I  believe  in  God,  and  I  think  it  is  because  I  believe 
in  love." 


ANGELA  MESSENGER 

SHE  was  an  heiress — one  of  the  richest  in  Eng- 
land— the  possessor  in  her  own  right  of  several 
millions.  When,  at  the  age  of  twenty-one,  she 
graduated  from  college  at  Newnham,  she  found  her- 
self facing  the  serious  responsibilities  of  life.  What 
to  do  with  her  education,  her  immense  wealth,  and 
the  opportunity  that  these  would  assuredly  bring? 
Nay,  what  of  the  duty  which  they  imposed?  For 
although  only  twenty-one,  the  possession  of  a  fortune 
brought  a  most  sobering  influence  upon  her,  and 
the  more  so  that  she  must  meet  the  responsibilities 
of  life  alone.  Her  father  and  mother  were  both 
dead,  and  she  had  no  near  kinsman  to  serve  as  pro- 
tector and  adviser. 

As  to  her  personality,  the  thing  that  one  noticed 
most  was  her  earnest  face,  her  honest,  brown  eyes 
which  looked  fearlessly  out  upon  all  things,  fair  or 
foul;  and  last,  but  not  least  by  any  means,  was  her 
splendid  physique.  When  she  walked  it  seemed 
as  if  she  would  like  to  dance  or  run,  such  was  her 
vitality. 

One  evening  in  June — it  was  the  week  of  her 
graduation — she  was  talking  with  her  schoolmate 
of  their  school  life,  now  over,  and  of  the  life  that 
was  coming. 

"My  dear  Angela,"  said  her  friend, — she  was  a 
great  student  and  terribly  in  earnest, — "we  have 

332 


ANGELA  MESSENGER  333 

only  this  one  life  before  us,  and  what  a  pity  if  we 
waste  it  or  lose  our  chances.  Oh,  to  think  of  the 
girls  who  drift,  and  get  nothing  out  of  their  lives  at 
all !  My  life  shall  be  given  to  mathematics  and  the 
sciences — you  have  heard  me  say  so  before — but  it 
seems  to  me  that  you  are  as  yet  undecided." 

"I  confess,  my  future  is  not  quite  clear  to  me  yet," 
said  Angela.  "The  education  appointed  for  me  has 
been,  as  you  know,  of  the  practical  kind, —  manufac- 
turing, bookkeeping,  the  laws  of  trade.  I  have 
taken  the  course  in  social  and  political  economy. 
I  know  all  the  theories  about  people  and,  to  tell  the 
truth,  I  have  begun  to  suspect  that  none  of  them 
will  work.  Now,  do  you  know,  it  comes  to  me  more 
and  more  that  before  I  attempt  to  apply  any  of 
these  theories  I  must  get  to  know  the  people.  And 
as  to  applying  these  theories,  let  me  tell  you  what  I 
mean.  There  is  that  great  factory  of  mine  in  East 
London.  I  own  whole  streets  of  houses  there! 
Yes,  I  know,  my  agents  are  supposed  to  look  after 
them  all,  but  how  do  I  know  whether  they  do  it 
well;  whether  they  do  right  by  these  hundreds  of 
souls  who  work  for  me?  I  tell  you,  my  dear,  I  can- 
not shift  the  responsibility,  however  much  I  might 
desire  to  do  so." 

"Well,  what  can  you  do?" 

"Let  me  tell  you  in  confidence  what  I  am  going 
to  try  to  do.  Do  not  breathe  it,  I  pray,  to  a  single 
soul.  I  am  about  to  disappear,  at  least  for  the 
summer,  probably  for  a  year.  I  have  made  up  my 
mind  to  study  the  people  in  East  London.     I  shall 


334        FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

be  a  dressmaker  there  under  another  name,  and  shall 
see  whether  I  cannot  learn  something  and  do  some- 
thing. Miss  Kennedy,  madame,  respectfully  solicits 
you  orders!" 

Lord  Jocelyn, — as  he  was  usually  known, — a 
bachelor  of  ample  means,  had  reared  and  educated 
young  Harry,  the  son  of  a  fellow-soldier  who  fell 
at  his  side  in  India.  Fulfilling  a  promise  he  had  made 
his  ward,  he  told  him  of  his  parentage,  now  that  he 
had  attained  the  age  of  twenty-three.  The  result 
was  that  the  young  man  declared  with  the  utmost 
emphasis  and  decision  that  there  should  be  no 
concealment  of  the  fact  of  his  peasant  extraction — 
he  would  not  pretend  to  be  what  he  was  not — and, 
more  than  that,  he  intended  to  go  among  his  cousins 
in  East  London,  and  for  a  time  to  see  for  himself  that 
side  oflife,  following  the  trade  of  cabinetmaker,  some 
features  of  which  he  had  picked  up  in  his  leisure. 

He  was,  by  the  way,  a  splendid  fellow  in  his  per- 
sonal bearing.  There  was  about  him  the  thorough- 
bred air;  there  was  a  real  refinement  in  his  features 
and  his  ways.  His  education,  of  course,  had  been  of 
the  best;  and  while  there  was  a  touch  of  frivolity 
in  his  view  of  life,  yet  below  it  there  lay  a  real 
earnestness. 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  Harry  Goslett,  the 
cabinetmaker,  and  Miss  Kennedy,  the  dressmaker, 
took  rooms  in  a  respectable  boarding  house  in  East 
London,  each  of  them  ignorant  of  the  existence  of 
the  other. 


ANGELA   MESSENGER  335 

"Let  me  introduce  Mr.  Goslett,  Miss  Kennedy," 
said  the  landlady. 

As  Harry  faced  her,  and  bowed  in  that  superior 
style  so  natural  to  him,  he  was,- to  say  the  least,  con- 
siderably astonished;  for  she  had  the  carriage  and 
the  manner  of  a  lady.  She  was  dressed  quite  simply 
in  black  cashmere,  with  white  cuffs  and  collar. 
Her  great  brown  eyes  met  his  frankly,  and  yet  with 
a  certain  look  of  surprise  that  see  medan  answer  to 
his  own.  And  when,  that  evening,  she  sat  at  the 
piano  playing  easily,  gracefully,  and  with  expression, 
he  sat  and  watched  her,  still  wondering.  She  an 
East  London  dressmaker!  Who  in  all  this  forsaken, 
commonplace  region  could  have  taught  her  that 
touch  and  that  style  of  playing ! 

"Mr.  Bunker,"  said  Miss  Kennedy — she  addressed 
a  gray-haired  man,  an  agent  to  whom  she  had  been 
recommended, — "I  want  to  establish  myself  here  as 
a  dressmaker.  I  shall  want  a  convenient  house,  a 
staff  of  workwomen,  and  a  forewoman.  What  can 
you  do  for  me?" 

He  had  precisely  the  house  for  her — as  he  usually 
had  for  every  applicant  —  and  could  let  it  furnished 
if  desired.  He  could  supply  competent  workgirls 
also  in  any  number,  and  the  general  terms  of  his 
services  w^ere  soon  arranged. 

"I  understand,"  said  Miss  Kennedy,  "that  you 
were  connected  with  old  Mr.  Messenger  for  many 
years  in  the  large  business  at  the  factory?" 

"It  is  true,  miss.  I  was  his  confidential  agent, 
as  indeed  I  am  now  for  the  general  manager.     There 


336       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

are  hundreds  of  dwelling  houses  owned  by  the  com- 
pany of  which  I  have  the  care." 

' '  I  should  like  very  much  to  see  this  great  factory 
of  which  I  have  heard  so  much,"  said  she.  "Could 
you  take  me  over  ? " 

It  was  agreed. 

"Does  she  often  come  here?"  she  continued  as 
they  went  over.  "The  heiress,  I  mean.  You  were 
saying  that  all  this  great  property  belongs  to  Mr. 
Messenger's  daughter." 

* '  Never  once  been  anigh  the  place ;  never  seen  it ! 
Draws  the  money,  and  that's  all." 

"I  wonder  she  has  not  more  curiosity." 

"Ah!  it's  a  shame,"  he  replied,  "a  shame  for  so 
much  property  to  come  to  a  girl!  Covers  thirteen 
acres!  Think  of  that!  Seven  hundred  people  em- 
ployed! And  all  she  thinks  of  is  enjoying  her  fine 
home  in  London,  and  taking  the  profits.  Here," 
he  continued,  "is  the  book  for  the  visitors'  names," 
as  they  paused  in  the  outer  office. 

She  took  the  pen  from  his  hand  and  wrote  hur- 
riedly. 

"Ho!  ho!"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  glanced  at  the 
page.  "That's  a  good  one!  See  what  you've  written." 

She  had  written  her  own  name,  "Angela  Mes- 
senger." 

"How  stupid  of  me!"  she  said,  blushing  violently. 
"I  was  thinking  of  the  heiress;  they  said  it  was  her 
name."  Carefully  erasing  it,  she  wrote,  "A.  M. 
Kennedy." 

She  passed  through  the  enormous  building,  listened 


ANGELA   MESSENGER  337 

to  voluminous  explanations,  and  went  home  trying 
to  realize  her  great  possessions.  This  enormous 
manufactory!  Streets  of  houses!  And  heavy  in- 
vested funds  besides!  She  realized  as  never  before 
the  weight  of  her  responsibilities.  She  walked  the 
dreary,  monotonous  streets  which  she  was  supposed 
to  own,  feeling  as  if  the  cramped  lives  and  starved 
souls  of  these  hundreds  of  people  were  a  burden 
laid  upon  her.  Precisely  what  she  should  do  she 
did  not  know,  but  she  had  planned  a  beginning  in  a 
practical  way. 

The  young  Mr.  Goslett  was  so  intelligent,  so 
sensible,  and  withal  of  such  an  inventive  turn,  that 
she  found  it  extremely  interesting  to  converse  with 
him  of  the  people  among  whom  they  lived,  the  social 
conditions  in  that  part  of  East  London,  and  what 
might  be  done  to  improve  them. 

"Suppose,  for  instance,"  said  she  one  day,  "that 
this  young  lady,  this  Miss  Messenger  who  owns 
all  this  property,  were  to  use  her  money  for  the 
benefit  of  the  people;  how  would  she  begin,  do  you 
suppose?" 

"Oh,  most  likely  she  would  give  away  quantities 
of  food  and  clothing  and  so  on,  and  pauperize  more 
people  than  she  would  benefit.  That's  generally 
the  way,  you  know." 

Angela  sighed.  "That  is  not  very  encouraging," 
she  said. 

"Oh,  well,"  said  he,  "there  is  encouragement 
enough  for  such  a  person  as  she,  should  she  happen 
to  care.     Let  me  tell  you  how  it  seems  to  me. 


33S       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

Here  are  these  people  on  a  low,  dead  level.  It  is 
work,  work,  work,  day  in  and  day  out.  We  are 
not  starving  poor;  if  you  see  us  on  Sundays  and 
holidays  we  are  not  a  bad  looking  lot.  But  we  do 
not  live  a  large  life.  We  know  nothing  of  its  best 
thoughts,  its  high  aspirations,  its  real  enjoyments. 
We  workingmen  — ' ' 

"Wait  a  moment,  Mr.  Goslett.  You  are  not  a 
workingman;  whatever  else  you  are,  you  are  not 
that." 

She  faced  him  with  her  honest  eyes  as  if  she  would 
read  him,  for  she  felt  sure  she  was  right. 

He  replied,  without  the  least  change  of  color: 

"Indeed,  I  am  the  son  of  Sergeant  Goslett  of  the 
loth  Regiment,  who  fell  in  the  Indian  Mutiny,  and 
I  assure  you  I  am  a  cabinetmaker.  I  have  been 
fortunate  in  my  education,  that  is  all." 

"I  beg  pardon,"  said  she,  "for  interrupting.  I 
am  much  interested  in  what  you  were  saying." 

"Well,  I  was  speaking  of  the  narrow,  starved  life 
we  live  here;  starved  as  to  our  better  natures. 
What  we  need,  as  it  seems  to  me,  is  more  of  the 
beauty  of  life,  more  of  its  graces  and  pleasures. 
I'll  tell  you!"  he  exclaimed  with  enthusiasm  — 
"but  there,  it's  of  no  use.  I  was  only  going  to  say 
that  if  this  young  heiress  we  were  talking  of  wanted 
to  do  any  good  here  she  might  build  a  palace  right 
here  in  East  London  which  should  be  so  arranged 
and  so  managed  as  to  bring  the  brighter,  better 
side  of  life  within  our  reach.  But  then,  what  is  the 
use  of  building  air-castles?" 


ANGELA  MESSENGER  339 

"Oh,  it  will  do  no  harm,"  she  replied.  "How 
should  it  be  arranged  and  managed?" 

And  then  he  went  on  to  outline,  in  his  charming, 
inventive  way,  what  might  be  done.  There  should 
be  a  library,  a  reading  room,  a  reception  room  where 
young  people  might  meet,  schools  which  should 
teach  the  best  things, — music,  art,  accomplishments, 
the  graces  of  life.  There  should  be  a  hall  for  lec- 
tures, readings,  recitations,  the  drama.  How  the 
doors  would  open  into  the  larger,  beautiful  life! 

She  caught  his  enthusiasm,  glowing  with  an  eager- 
ness to  see  something  of  this  accomplished. 

"How  delightful!"  she  exclaimed.  "The  good, 
the  true,  and  the  beautiful!  Surely  that  is  what 
they  need.  How  different  it  would  be  with  the  best 
music  in  every  home ;  pictures,  too,  the  work  of  some 
member  of  the  family;  the  best  books  to  read  and 
the  best  things  in  conversation;  and  wonders  of 
beauty  in  the  great  palace  for  the  free  use  of  all." 

"I  declare,"  said  Harry,  "you  ought  to  have  had 
the  millions." 

Meanwhile  Angela's  preparations  for  the  business 
of  dressmaking  were  materializing.  A  suitable  house 
was  rented,  a  sign,  "The  Dressmakers'  Association," 
placed  in  the  window,  and  she  began  to  assemble 
her  force  of  workers.  Bunker  the  agent,  for  an 
ample  consideration,  placed  her  in  communication 
with  them.  She  found  herself  one  day  at  the 
Trinity  Almshouse,  talking  with  a  beautiful  young 
girl  whose  father  was  an  inmate.  Angela  greeted 
her  cordially,  taking  her  by  the  hand. 


340       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

"What  is  your  name,  my  dear?" 

"I  call  her  Nelly,"  said  her  father,  "and  she's  a 
good  girl.     Will  you  sit  down,  Miss  Kennedy?" 

She  did  so,  examined  Nelly's  work,  and  con- 
cluded with  saying,  "If  you  approve,  Captain 
Sorenson,  I  will  engage  your  daughter  from  this 
day." 

"I  have  only  been  out  as  a  seamstress,  as  yet," 
said  Nelly,  "but  if  you  will  really  try  me  as  a 
dressmaker —  Oh,  father,  it  is  sixteen  shillings 
a  week!" 

Angela's  heart  smote  her.  A  poor  sixteen  shillings 
a  week,  and  the  girl  was  delighted  with  getting  so 
much! 

"What  do  you  say,  Captain  Sorenson?  Will  you 
trust  her  to  me,  and  let  her  come?" 

"Madame,"  said  the  captain,  while  his  eyes  filled 
with  tears,  "who  ever  in  this  place  offered  work  as 
if  taking  it  were  a  favor  to  the  one  who  offered  it!" 

"Mr.  Bunker  tells  me,"  said  she,  "that  you  are 
hard  to  please;  that  you  refused  a  place  that  he 
offered." 

"Yes;  God  knows  if  I  did  right.  You  can  see 
we  are  desperately  poor.  Yet  my  blood  boiled  when 
I  heard  of  the  character  of  the  man  whom  my  Nelly 
was  to  serve.  I  could  not  let  her  go.  She  is  all  I 
have,  Miss  Kennedy."  The  old  man  drew  the 
beautiful  girl  to  himself.  * '  If  you  will  take  her,  yes 
— and  may  God  bless  you." 

"You  may  trust  your  daughter  with  me,  sir," 
said  Angela,  with  tears  in  her  eyes.    She  gave  him 


ANGELA  MESSENGER  341 

her  hand  at  parting,  and  he  bowed  over  it  with  the 
courtesy  of  a  captain  on  his  own  quarter  deck. 

"Oh,  father,"  cried  Nelly  when  she  had  gone, 
"was  there  ever  anybody  like  her!" 

On  the  evening  before  the  regular  work  of  the 
shop  was  to  begin  Angela  assembled  her  girls  to  the 
number  of  about  a  dozen  and  unfolded  her  plans. 
She  had  invited  Mr.  Goslett  also,  as  she  wished 
for  his  assistance  and  suggestion.  Her  forewoman 
was  to  have  the  entire  management  of  the  shop, 
while  she  herself — to  the  astonishment  of  her  lis- 
teners— began  to  tell  them  what  she  intended  as 
her  own  occupation. 

"The  girls  will  be  here  at  nine  in  the  morning. 
We  will  work  till  eleven,  and  then  I  have  arranged 
for  a  half  hour  of  exercise.  The  long  hours  of 
sitting  and  bending  over  work  are  wearisome,  and 
need  this  relief.  You  see  the  yard  outside?  We 
will  play  lawn  tennis." 

None  of  the  girls  knew  what  it  was,  but  they  were 
too  dumb  with  amazement  to  ask. 

"Then,"  she  continued,  "we  shall  work  from 
eleven  till  one,  when  we  shall  stop  for  dinner." 

"They  bring  their  own  dinner,"  said  the  fore- 
woman, "and  are  generally  allowed  ten  minutes  to 
eat  it." 

"But,"  said  Angela,  "I  have  a  different  plan. 
I  have  a  dining  room  arranged  in  the  rear,  and  shall 
give  the  girls  their  dinner;  something  plain  and 
wholesome,  that  is  all.  Then  we  shall  rest  an  hour. 
Then,  as  the  afternoon  is  the  most  tedious  part  of 


342       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

the  day,  I  think  perhaps  we  will  arrange  to  have 
some  one  come  and  read  aloud  to  us." 

She  then  led  them  to  the  front  room  of  the  house, 
and  there  in  a  recess  stood  a  piano. 

"And  what  is  this?"  said  the  forewoman,  who 
alone  found  her  voice. 

"This  room  is  for  recreation.  It  will  not  do  to 
work  all  the  time  and,  remember,  we  propose  not 
to  work  in  the  evening.  Here  we  shall  have  music 
and  games;  dancing  sometimes,  singing  and  reading 
too — anything  to  brighten  our  lives." 

"I  beg  pardon,"  said  her  forewoman,  "but  no 
business  will  stand  up  under  such  expenses.  May 
I  make  bold  to  ask  how  3^ou  will  pay  for  all  this?" 

"My  friends,"  said  Angela,  coloring,  for  this  was 
a  crisis,  and  to  be  suspected  here  might  be  fatal, 
"I  have  a  confession  to  make  to  you.  I  have  seen 
how  the  girls  in  our  shops  toil  for  long  hours  and 
little  pay.  Now  I  thought  if  I  could  start  a  shop 
where  a  different  system  should  prevail,  it  would 
at  least  be  worth  the  trying.  I  knew  it  would 
require  money,  so  I  wrote  to  a  wealthy  friend  of 
mine — you  know  her  name,  I  am  sure, —  Miss 
Messenger,  the  owner  of  all  this  property  here, — 
telling  her  of  what  I  wanted  to  do.  And,  if  you  will 
believe  it,  she  has  interested  herself  in  the  enterprise, 
furnished  the  funds  to  start  us,  and  has  given  us  the 
furniture — including  the  piano — and  the  rent  for 
a  year.  And  I  have  in  my  pocket  a  letter  from  her 
inclosing  a  large  order  for  work.  She  says  also  that 
some  day  she  hopes  to  come  and  see  us." 


ANGELA  MESSENGER  343 

"Since  she  has  helped  you  so  Hberally  in  this 
matter,  you  might  try  her  for  the  palace,"  said 
Harry,  as  they  were  talking  that  evening.  "Just 
tell  her,"  he  continued,  for  he  was  enthusiastic  in 
the  matter,  "just  tell  her  that  if  she  wants  to  do  a 
thing  unparalleled  among  the  deeds  of  men,  let  her 
build  this  palace  for  the  people." 

"Do  you  really  think  she  would?"  said  Angela. 

"Well,"  he  replied,  "you  know  best,  since  she  is 
a  friend  of  yours.  But  if  I  were  she,  I  should  tremble 
lest  some  other  person  with  money  should  get  hold 
of  the  idea  and  step  in  before  me." 

The  opening  day  came,  the  workgirls  began  their 
tasks.  How  Angela  taught  them  the  uses  of  recrea- 
tion in  lawn  tennis  and  the  gymnasium — well,  it 
was  very,  very  strange  to  them,  but  at  the  end  of  a 
week  it  had  almost  transformed  them.  When  the 
dinner  hour  came  she  led  them  to  the  dining  hall, 
and  at  the  mere  sight  of  the  meat  and  vegetables 
and  other  good  things — plain  though  they  were — 
one  poor  girl  could  not  keep  back  the  tears.  Why 
she  wept,  and  how  Angela  followed  her  home,  and 
what  that  home  was  like,  and  why  she  and  her 
mother  and  her  sisters  do  now  praise  and  pray  for 
Angela,  we  have  not  the  time  to  tell.  One  thing  was 
certain;  the  heart  of  this  rich  young  woman  began 
to  know  a  glow  of  happiness  of  which  it  had  never 
dreamed. 

In  the  evening,  when  the  work  was  put  away,  she 
invited  them  all  upstairs.  She  had  invited  Harry 
and  Captain  Sorenson  to  help  her.     And  while  the 


34-1        FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

latter  played  for  them  —  he  loved  his  violin  —  she 
gave  them  their  first  lesson  in  dancing.  At  the 
mere  beholding  how  the  young  man  approached 
Miss  Kennedy  and,  bowing,  courteously  asked  to 
be  allowed  the  pleasure,  and  then  stepped  with 
her  through  the  beautiful  music — it  was  another 
world  above  and  beyond  theirs,  and  the  doors  were 
open  for  them  to  enter! 

There  was  plenty  of  objection  and  criticism. 
"All  this  is  too  good  for  the  girls,"  said  her  fore- 
woman; "it  will  make  them  discontented." 

"That  is  what  I  want,"  said  Angela.  "Unless 
they  are  discontented  there  will  be  no  improvement. 
Discontent  is  the  first  step;  the  rest  follows." 

More  and  more  the  joylessness  of  East  London 
life  was  in  evidence  about  her  everywhere.  It  was 
ignorant,  contented  joylessness,  and  her  heart  gave 
a  great  bound  as  she  realized  that  she  had  made  a 
break  in  it.  For  the  first  time  her  girls  learned  that 
there  were  joys  in  life,  joys  which  they  could  reach, 
poor  as  they  were.  It  was  delightful  to  see  how  the 
better  living,  the  sunny  life,  the  diversions — how 
all  this  brightened  them,  developed  them,  new- 
created  them!  With  a  full  heart  Angela  Messenger 
thanked  God  every  night  for  what  life  had  come  to 
mean  to  her,  and  for  that  which,  by  His  blessing,  she 
might  yet  come  to  know. 

It  could  not  be  that  two  young  people  should  meet 
in  this  way,  with  mutual  interests  and  many  con- 
versations, and  nothing  whatever  should  come  of  it. 
They  were  a  surprise  to  each  other  at  the  first,  and 


ANGELA   MESSENGER  345 

a  problem  to  each  other  as  the  days  went  by.  The 
one  found  in  a  dressmaker  the  unmistakable  refine- 
ment and  accomplishments  of  a  lady;  the  other 
found  in  a  cabinetmaker  the  distinguishing  marks 
of  a  gentleman.  And  how  this  could  possibly  be,  in 
either  case,  neither  of  them  could  imagine. 

Early  in  their  acquaintance  Angela  had  taken 
occasion  to  say  to  him,  "I  believe  that  in  our  class 
of  life  it  is  customary  for  young  people  to  'keep 
company,'  as  they  say.     Is  it  not?" 

"It  is  not  uncommon,"  he  replied  with  much 
earnestness.  "The  custom  has  even  been  imitated 
by  the  higher  classes." 

"I  speak  of  the  matter,"  she  replied,  "for  this 
reason.  I  do  not  wish,  at  present,  to  keep  company 
with  any  one.  But  if  you  please  to  help  me,  if  I 
ask  your  advice,  I  shall  be  grateful." 

The  ordinary  young  man  would  have  been  incap- 
able of  respecting  such  a  wish  and  of  conducting 
himself  always  in  a  strictly  courteous,  friendly, 
gentlemanly  way.  But  our  hero  took  her  at  her 
word,  and  acted  accordingly.  There  is,  by  the 
blessing  of  kind  heaven,  ever  left  unto  us  a  remnant 
of  those  who  hold  woman  sacred;  who  are  governed 
always  by  that  strong,  fine  sentiment,  the  honor 
of  a  gentleman.  And  the  only  thing  which  made  it 
possible  for  Angela,  situated  as  she  was,  to  cultivate 
the  acquaintance  of  this  youth  was  her  perception 
of  this  moral  soundness.  She  grew  perfectly  sure 
of  him  as  one  on  whose  discretion  and  good  will  she 
could  depend.    As  for  him,  his  fate  was  already 


346       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

sealed.  He  confessed  to  himself  that  in  all  his 
experience  of  society  he  had  not  met  her  equal. 
And  she  a  dressmaker! 

Angela  noticed  that  he  did  not  work  steadily,  and 
mentioned  the  fact  to  him.  He  replied  that  he  was 
looking  for  a  situation.  Possibly  he  could  not 
obtain  it  in  East  London. 

"If  you  should  find  work  here,"  she  asked  him, 
"would  you  be  willing  to  stay?" 

"Certainly  I  would  stay  if  you  tell  me  to  stay," 
he  replied  with  sudden  earnestness. 

"I  would  bid  you  stay,"  she  said,  speaking  as 
clearly  and  as  firmly  as  she  could,  "because  I  like 
your  society  and  because  you  have  been  and  will  be, 
I  hope,  very  helpful  to  us.  But  if  I  bid  you  stay" — 
she  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm — "it  must  be  on  no 
misunderstanding. ' ' 

"I  am  your  servant,"  he  replied  with  a  little 
agitation  in  his  voice.  "I  understand  nothing  but 
what  you  wish  me  to  understand." 

Two  days  after  this  conversation  the  young  man 
received  an  offer  of  employment  at  the  great  factory. 
He  was  to  have  a  workroom  to  himself,  and  the 
wages  were  fair.  He  was  requested  to  give  his 
answer  next  day.  It  is,  of  course,  needless  to  say 
that  this  offer  was  the  result  of  a  letter  sent  by  Miss 
Messenger  to  the  general  manager. 

Here  was  a  dilemma.  What  was  he  to  do?  He 
felt  sure  he  could  not  go  on  in  this  idleness  and 
retain  Miss  Kennedy's  esteem,  even.  She  had 
intimated  as  much.     The  truth  was  he  was  not 


ANGELA  MESSENGER  347 

quite  prepared  to  live  always  a  cabinetmaker  in 
East  London. 

' '  You  are  silent  to-night,  Mr.  Goslett,"  said  Angela. 

"Yes,"  he  replied;  "I  am  in  a  brown  study.  The 
fact  is,  I  have  had  an  ofifer  of  work  from  the  factory. 
Miss  Messenger  herself,  so  I  am  informed,  arranged 
it  — for  some  unearthly  reason — and  I  am  to  accept 
or  refuse  to-morrow  morning." 

"Indeed!  I  congratulate  you,"  she  said.  "Of 
course  you  will  accept  ? "     She  looked  at  him  keenly. 

"I  do  not  know,"  said  he. 

"I  should  be  very  glad  if  you  would  take  the 
place,"  she  said.  "I  know  I  am  selfish,  but  you  are 
a  great  help  to  us  here." 

"Miss  Kennedy — "  He  checked  himself  in  what 
rose  to  his  lips  and  he  added,  only,  "It  is  done, 
then.  I  stay  for  your  sake,  because  you  command 
me  to  stay." 

As  the  winter  season  approached,  Angela  found 
she  could  not  altogether  ignore  the  social  life  she 
had  left  behind  in  fashionable  London.  There 
was  one  lady  in  particular  whose  invitation  she  felt 
bound  to  accept.  Occasionally,  therefore,  she  was 
seen  in  the  society  to  which  she  belonged.  At  a 
certain  dinner  party  she  was  taken  down  by  a  rather 
pleasing  man  who  was  presented  as  Lord  Jocelyn. 

"Strange  people  in  this  world.  Miss  Messenger," 
said  he,  intent  only  on  amusing  her.  ' '  There  is  my 
ward,  Harry — did  you  ever  hear  of  a  young  man 
renouncing  all  the  advantages  of  social  position 
and  casting  his  lot  among  the  people!" 
22 


348       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

**I  do  not  understand,"  she  said. 

"Why,  it  was  this  way.  I  brought  him  up  in 
ignorance  of  his  origin;  and  when  I  had  told  him, 
as  I  had  promised,  he  declared  he  wouldn't  sail 
under  false  colors.  And,  more  than  that,  he  said 
he  would  see  the  pit  from  which  he  was  digged,  and 
insisted  on  plunging  into  East  London.  And  when 
I  returned  from  my  cruise  in  the  Mediterranean — 
but  there,  Miss  Messenger,  I  am  garrulous  enough; 
pardon  me." 

"But  I  am  deeply  interested,"  said  she.  "What 
was  the  result  of  this  experiment  of  his?" 

"Why,  he  came  back  to  me  after  some  months 
and  talked  a  prodigious  amount  of  nonsense  about 
equality,  and  his  duty  to  his  own  people.  He  said 
farewell  to  me,  and  thanked  me  for  all  I  had  done 
for  him,  saying  that  he  had  secured  a  permanent 
situation  at  Miss  Messenger's  factory  in  East  London. 
And  furthermore —   What  is  it,  Miss  Messenger?" 

She  had  become  suddenly  and  unaccountably  pale. 
"It  is  nothing,  Lord  Jocelyn,  nothing.  Pardon  me, 
but  I  forgot  to  ask  the  name  of  your  ward." 

"It  is  Harry,  and  his  father's  name  was  Goslett; 
Sergeant  Goslett  of  the  loth  Regiment,  and  a  good 
man,  too,  for  I  knew  him  well." 

"And  you  were  saying  that  the  young  man  secured 
this  permanent  situation — " 

"Yes;  and  for  a  long  time  I  couldn't  understand  it. 
The  idea!  A  talented  young  man,  one  who  could 
have  and  enjoy  everything  in  life;  no  matter  who 
his  father  was — for  I  love  Harry,  Miss  Messenger, 


ANGELA  MESSENGER  349 

and  would  be  glad  to  give  him  anything — the  idea 
of  such  a  one  securing  a  permanent  situation  down 
there  among  the  working  people !  As  I  said,  I  could 
not  understand  it.  However,  after  a  while  I  got 
out  of  him  the  real  truth." 

"And  what  was  that?" 

"Ah,  it  was  something  romantic  enough,  I  assure 
you.     He  confessed  that  he  was  in  love." 

"With  a  young  lady  of  East  London?  One  may 
hope  she  is  a  worthy  person,  a  girl  of  whom  you 
approve." 

"Well,  I  can  hardly  say.  The  fact  is,  she  is 
nothing  but  a  dressmaker.  But  there!  The  boy 
is  dead  in  love,  and  what  am  I  to  do?" 

"A  dressmaker.  Oh!"  She  threw  something  of 
coldness  into  her  tone.  And  indeed  there  was 
some  need  that  she  do  so,  for  she  was  blushing 
furiously,  and  she  held  her  fan  before  her  face  to 
cover  her  confusion. 

"Nevertheless,"  he  went  on,  "he  insists  that  she 
is  a  lady.  He  went  into  raptures  over  her.  She  is 
beautiful  as  the  day;  she  is  graceful,  accomplished, 
well-mannered,  a  queen  — " 

"No  doubt,"  said  Angela.  "But  really,  Lord 
Jocelyn,  as  it  is  Mr.  Goslett,  the  cabinetmaker,  and 
not  you,  who  is  in  love  with  this  paragon,  we  may 
be  spared  her  praises." 

"Very  well.  But  you  have  no  idea  of  Harry's 
enthusiasm.  And  this  is  the  more  remarkable  in 
view  of  the  fact  that  she  will  have  nothing  to  say 
to  him." 


350       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

"That  is  indeed  remarkable.  But  perhaps,  as  she 
is  the  queen  of  dressmakers,  she  is  looking  for  the 
king  of  cabinetmakers." 

' '  Possibly.  But  I  do  assure  you  it  is  the  prettiest 
romance  I  ever  heard  of.  Think  of  it.  His  suit  is 
hopeless,  but  his  love  is  undying,  and  he  steadfastly 
refuses  to  leave  the  place.  I  am  so  sorry  for  him. 
I  wonder  what  the  end  will  be." 

"Let  us  hope  for  the  best.  I  trust  the  dressmaker 
will  relent,  that  the  wedding  bells  will  ring,  and  that 
they  will  live  happily  ever  after.  I  thank  you  for 
your  little  romance.  Lord  Jocelyn.  Your  Harry  is 
certainly  a  brave  and  loyal  lover.  He  gives  up  all, 
all,  for  love!  It  is  good  to  know  of  such  things." 
She  looked  around  the  room  filled  with  guests,  her 
great  eyes  became  limped,  and  her  voice  fell  low. 
"All  for  love!  How  must  a  woman  feel  to  be  loved 
Hke  that!" 

"I  think,"  said  Lord  Jocelyn  afterwards,  "that  if 
Harry  had  met  Miss  Messenger  before  he  did  his 
dressmaker  we  should  not  have  heard  so  much  about 
the  beautiful  life  of  a  workingman.  Oh,  confound 
it!  Why  couldn't  it  have  happened  so?  What  a 
woman!    What  a  match  it  would  have  been!" 

Meanwhile,  in  Angela's  conversations  with  Harry 
the  idea  of  the  palace  for  the  people  had  taken  shape 
in  her  brain.  She  delighted  to  draw  him  out  with 
regard  to  it,  to  raise  objections  for  him  to  answer. 
Upon  looking  over  the  ground  she  found  a  four- 
square block  of  her  own  houses  of  the  poorer  class 
which  afforded  ample  room  for  her  design.    She 


ANGELA   MESSENGER  351 

held  consultations  with  her  architect — but  always 
in  London;  not  on  the  spot,  where  she  might  be 
recognized — and  the  details  were  carefully  arranged. 
She  also  stipulated  that  no  curious  inquirers  on  the 
spot  should  be  told  the  purpose  of  the  building  or 
who  was  the  builder.  And  so  the  ground  was 
cleared  and  the  walls  of  the  palace  began  to  rise. 

About  this  time  she  received  a  letter,  addressed 
to  Miss  Messenger,  from  Mr.  Bunker,  complaining 
of  one  of  the  tenants:  "I  thought  it  best  to  write 
to  you  direct,"  said  he,  "for  reasons  that  will  appear. 
A  certain  Miss  Kennedy  has  established  herself  here 
in  one  of  your  houses  as  a  dressmaker.  I  hear  she 
has  your  custom,  and  considered  that  I  ought  to 
inform  you  about  her.  She  has  employed  a  lot  of 
foolish  girls,  and  is  filling  their  heads  with  nonsense 
about  enjoying  life,  and  better  wages,  and  what  not, 
and  they  are  getting  discontented  and  feeling  above 
their  station.  They  have  short  hours,  and  dinner, 
and  resting  spells;  and  in  the  evening  it's  worse, 
for  then  they  have  games  and  singing  and  dancing. 
Where  this  Miss  Kennedy  comes  from,  nobody 
knows,  but  she  is  doing  a  sight  of  mischief  in  spread- 
ing discontent  among  the  other  shops.  I  thought 
it  right  to  give  you  this  information,  because  if  you 
should  withdraw  your  custom  she  will  have  to  wind 
up  her  affairs ;  which  I  hope  may  happen  before  long, 
and  the  girls  go  on  again  as  before,  and  leave  singing 
and  dancing  to  their  betters  and  be  content  with 
the  crust  to  which  they  were  born." 


352       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

"Oh,  Miss  Kennedy,"  said  sweet  Nelly  one  day  — 
Angela  had  come  to  love  her  dearly  — ' '  you  call 
yourself  a  dressmaker,  but  we  know  better.  You 
are  a  lady;  my  father  says  so.  He  used  to  have 
great  ladies  aboard  his  ship,  and  he  knows.  We 
don't  ask  your  secret,  but  we  are  afraid  that  some 
day  you  will  go  away  and  not  come  back  to  us  again. 
And  what  should  w^e  do  then?" 

"My  dear,  dear  girl!  Whatever  happens,  I 
promise  you  I  will  not  desert  you!  I  shall  stay  by 
you  all,"   was  the  comforting  reply. 

Talk  of  happiness !  Talk  of  enjoying  life !  Angela 
had  never  known  it  till  now.  Her  girls  loved  her 
with  all  their  hearts,  not  only  grateful  for  her  kind- 
ness, but  responding  so  beautifully  to  her  love  of 
them.  They  clung  to  her.  They  worshiped  her. 
She  had  led  them  out  into  the  beauty  and  the  joy 
of  life,  and  she  was  their  queen !  Heiress  as  she  was, 
how  often  had  she  contemplated  the  difficulties  of 
her  own  position.  "A  woman  like  me,  with  vast 
wealth  at  her  command,  is  so  flattered  and  impor- 
tuned by  every  one.  How  is  it  possible  for  her  to 
know  her  true  friends?  And  how,  pray,  is  she  to 
know  the  angel  of  love,  if  so  be  it  shall  come?  How 
distinguish  between  love  of  her  wealth  and  love  of 
herself?"  And  then  she  fell  to  thinking  of  the 
youth  whose  acquaintance  she  had  made  in  these 
last  months.  She  knew  now  of  his  sacrifice.  He 
had  deliberately  chosen  the  life  of  a  workingman, 
and  she  knew  beyond  a  peradventure  what  was  the 
reason.     The  heiress  could  not  help  realizing  that 


ANGELA   MESSENGER  353 

it  was  sweet  to  be  loved  for  her  own  sake.  Ah! 
there  are  so  many  lovely,  beautiful,  royal  things 
that  money  cannot  buy ! 

Harry  was  telling  a  story  one  night  for  the  benefit 
of  the  girls,  and  Angela  was  talking  with  his  friend 
Dick  Coppin,  who  had  been  invited  that  evening. 

"They  say  at  the  club,"  said  he,  "that  this  place 
is  all  a  sham;  that  what  is  done  here  does  not 
amount  to  anything  in  real  benefit  of  the  people." 

"Will  you  not  bring  your  friends  some  evening," 
she  replied, ' '  and  show  them  that  they  are  mistaken  ?" 

"Harry  enlightens  them  once  in  a  while,"  said  he. 
"He  stood  up  for  you  in  a  plucky  way  the  other 
night." 

"I  can  believe  he  is  a  brave  man,"  she  answered. 

"Yes,  the  other  night  they  were  talking  about 
you,  and  one  said  one  thing  and  one  said  another, 
and  a  chap  said  he  thought  he'd  seen  you  in  a  West 
End  music  hall,  and  he  did  n't  believe  you  were  any 
better  than  you  should  be." 

She  shrank  and  winced  as  if  she  had  received  a  blow. 

"Well,  he  didn't  say  it  twice.  After  Harry  had 
knocked  him  down  he  invited  him  to  stand  up  and 
have  it  out.     But  he  wouldn't." 

Her  look  of  admiration  and  gratitude!  Harry 
lost  it  in  his  preoccupation. 

Lord  Jocelyn  was  in  low  spirits  one  day  and,  as 
he  had  not  seen  Harry  since  his  strange  decision, 
bethought  himself  that  he  would  seek  him  out  in 
his  workman's  exile.     He  found  him  interested  in 

23 


354       FIGURES  FAMED   IN   FICTION 

his  work  and  unalterably  determined  in  his  present 
course.  Upon  leaving  him,  it  occurred  to  Lord 
Jocelyn  that  he  would  call  upon  Miss  Kennedy,  if 
he  could  find  her,  and  see  for  himself  this  siren  who 
had  so  charmed  his  Harry. 

Angela  was  sitting  at  the  window  and  saw  him 
approaching.  She  divined  the  truth  in  a  moment. 
She  whispered  to  Nelly  that  a  gentleman  was  coming 
to  see  her  who  must  be  shown  upstairs. 

Her  heart  beat  hurriedly  as  she  awaited  him.  She 
heard  his  footsteps  on  the  stairs;  the  door  opened. 
She  rose  to  meet  him. 

"Why,  Miss  Messenger!  You  here?  This  is 
indeed  a  surprise." 

"No,  Lord  Jocelyn,"  she  said,  confused,  yet 
trying  to  speak  confidently,  "in  this  house,  if  you 
please,  I  am  not  Miss  Messenger.  I  am  Miss 
Kennedy,  the — the — " 

Then  she  remembered  exactly  what  her  next 
words  would  mean  to  him,  and  she  blushed  vio- 
lently. "I  am  the — the  dressmaker."  She  could 
hardly  have  imagined  how  entirely  lovely  she  was 
in  her  confusion. 

A  man  of  the  world  at  forty-five  seldom  feels  sur- 
prised at  anything,  unless,  indeed,  like  Moliere,  he 
encounters  virtue  in  unexpected  quarters.  This, 
however,  was  a  thing  so  extraordinary  that  Lord 
Jocelyn  gasped. 

"Pardon  me.  Miss  Messenger,"  he  said,  recovering 
himself.  * '  I  was  so  totally  unprepared  for  this  — 
this  discovery." 


ANGELA   MESSENGER  355 

"Now  that  you  have  made  it,  Lord  Jocelyn,  may 
I  ask  you  most  earnestly  to  reveal  it  to  no  one — to 
no  single  soul?" 

"Most  certainly,  Miss  Messenger,  I  will  keep  your 
secret.  But  I  would  ask  a  favor  in  return,  if  I 
may." 

"What  is  that?" 

"Will  you  take  me  further  into  your  confidence? 
May  I  ask  you  why  you  are  doing  this  very  unusual 
thing?  I  hope  I  am  not  impertinent  in  asking  this 
of  you." 

"By  no  means,  for  all  this  must  seem  strange  to 
you.  After  what  you  once  told  me  about  — "  she 
hesitated  a  moment,  then  turned  her  clear  brown 
eyes  straight  upon  his  face — "about  your  ward,  per- 
haps some  explanation  is  due  you." 

She  went  on  to  explain  her  work  and  her  purposes. 
She  told  him  with  glowing  enthusiasm  of  her  girls 
and  of  what  she  had  been  able  to  do  for  them. 

"Oh,"  said  she,  "if  you  knew  their  joyless  lives  — 
narrow,  dull,  and  hopeless;  if  you  could  imagine 
the  great  joy  I  have  in  trying  to  help  them,  and  the 
intense  interest  that  my  problem  has  for  me,  you 
would  not  wonder  at  my  staying  here." 

Man  of  the  world  though  he  was,  he  was  deeply 
affected  by  her  recital. 

"I  think,"  said  he,  "that  you  are  a  very  noble 
woman." 

Then  she  spoke  of  the  palace, — the  walls  of  which 
they  could  see  from  the  window, — giving  full  credit 
to  Harry  for  being  the  originator  of  the  scheme. 


356       FIGURES  FAMED   IN    FICTION 

"Miss  Messenger,"  said  he,  "may  I  be  pardoned 
if  I  earnestly  commend  my  boy  to  you?  May  I 
very,  very  earnestly  ask  you  not  to  break  his  heart  ? 
For  if  you  turn  from  him,  that  is  what  it  will  be. 
He  is  a  splendid  fellow,  and  he  is  most  devotedly 
yours." 

"Yes,"  she  murmured,  "I  cannot  doubt  his 
entire  sincerity,  for  he  knows  nothing  of  my  fortune. 
Perhaps;  perhaps.  Be  patient  w4th  me  for  a  little. 
The  time  is  not  yet  come.  And  I  implore  you,  keep 
my  secret." 

"Do  not  fear,"  he  said;  "neither  he  nor  any  one 
shall  ever  learn  from  me  what  you  have  been  so 
good  and  kind  and  generous  as  to  tell  me." 

Lord  Jocelyn  went  home  in  a  state  of  mind! 

' '  That  Harry !  the  lucky  rascal !  To  lose  his  heart 
to  the  richest  heiress  in  England,  and  to  have  his 
passion  returned!  And  such  a  lovely  woman! 
Talk  of  romance!     Well,  well!" 

"Miss  Kennedy,"  said  Harry  one  day,  "will  you 
pardon  me  just  one  word?  You  command  me  not 
to  say  the  thing  I  most  desire  to  say.  If  the  time 
should  ever  come  when  the  reasons  which  command 
my  silence  are  removed,  will  you  be  so  kind  as  to 
tell  me  so?"  And  she  could  not  help  but  promise. 
This  courtly  deference  on  his  part,  and  she  nothing 
but  a  dressmaker!  Surely  he  possessed  the  true 
spirit  of  a  gentleman. 

"The  Palace  of  Delight,"  as  Angela  called  it,  was 
finished  at  last.  One  evening,  a  fortnight  before 
the  opening  day,  she  invited  her  girls,  and  with 


ANGELA   MESSENGER  357 

them  Harry  and  the  old  captain,  to  come  with  her, 
for  she  had  something  of  especial  interest  to  show 
them.  She  spoke  very  seriously,  and  they  went 
with  her,  wondering.  Finally  she  stopped  before 
the  strange,  magnificent  building,  and  they  ascended 
the  broad  steps  to  the  porch,  where  Angela  rang  a 
bell  and  the  door  was  opened.  Several  attendants 
seemed  to  be  waiting  for  them. 

"Miss  Messenger's  party?"  asked  one  of  them. 

"We  are  Miss  Messenger's  party,"  replied  Angela. 

"Whoever  we  are,  we  are  a  great  mystery  to 
ourselves,"  said  Harry. 

"Light  up.  Bill,"  said  one  of  the  men. 

They  stood  in  the  great  hall,  while  the  electric 
lights  were  turned  on. 

"My  friend,"  said  Angela  to  Harry  as  they  entered 
one  of  the  large  halls  filled  with  pictures,  statues, 
and  all  beautiful  things,  "this  is  your  Palace  of 
Delight,  your  own  creation."  And  then  turning 
to  the  girls  before  he  could  reply,  "My  dears,  I 
have  a  wonderful  story  to  tell  you." 

And  then  she  told  them  of  a  girl  who  had  the 
misfortune  to  be  born  rich — a  misfortune  because 
it  attracted  to  her  all  sorts  of  designing  men  and 
pretended  philanthropists.  She  could  not  tell  who 
were  her  real  friends  even,  and  she  began  to  fear 
that  she  should  never  know  such  a  thing  as  genuine 
love.  This  girl's  name  was  Messenger.  In  the 
midst  of  her  perplexity  she  hit  upon  a  plan  to  use 
her  money  in  a  practical  way.  She  had  a  humble 
friend — only  a  dressmaker — who  loved   her   and 


358       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

wished  to  serve  her,  and  who  for  this  reason  came 
to  live  among  the  girls  in  East  London.  She  saw  all 
their  sad,  hard  life  and,  through  the  aid  of  Miss  Mes- 
senger, was  enabled  to  help  some  of  them.  And  that 
was  how  the  Dressmakers'  Association  was  founded. 

"And  then  another  thing  happened,"  Angela 
went  on  to  say.  "There  was  a  young  gentleman 
staying  at  the  East  End  at  that  time.  He  called 
himself  a  workingman,  but  every  one  knew  that 
he  was  a  gentleman.  This  dressmaker  made  his 
acquaintance  and  talked  with  him  a  great  deal,  and 
he  proposed  an  immense  building  like  this,  to  be 
placed  at  the  service  of  the  people.  When  the 
scheme  was  fully  drawn  up  the  dressmaker  took  it 
to  Miss  Messenger.  Oh,  my  dear  girls,  this  is  the 
Palace  of  Delight.  And  here  is  the  man  who 
invented  it." 

Then  she  led  the  way  through  the  great  building. 
There  were  schoolrooms,  a  library,  a  concert  room, 
an  immense  dance  hall,  a  hall  for  the  drama  built 
in  the  Roman  style.  There  was  a  completely 
appointed  gymnasium,  and  also  a  reception  room, 
where  the  girls  could  meet  their  ^riends  in  a  self- 
respecting,  suitable  way.  There  were  rooms  for 
instruction  in  painting,  wood  carving,  modeling, 
cooking,  and  sewing. 

"It  is  a  palace  of  delight,"  said  Angela,  "but  we 
shall  not  be  like  a  troop  of  revelers,  thinking  of 
nothing  but  dance  and  song.  We  shall  learn  some- 
thing every  day,  growing  in  all  the  best  things,  and 
entering  the  larger  life." 


ANGELA   MESSENGER  359 

She  sent  the  girls  home  with  Captain  Sorenson, 
and  lingered  a  moment  with  Harry.  Never  knight 
of  old  had  been  more  loyal.  He  had  been  the 
impersonation  of  perfect  courtesy,  had  shown  himself 
a  thorough  gentleman,  had  proved  his  real  interest 
in  the  people,  had  also  proved  the  genuineness  of 
his  passion,  and  now  his  reward  had  come;  for  he 
learned  from  her  own  lips,  to  his  own  great  joy,  that 
on  the  day  of  the  formal  opening  of  the  palace  which 
he  had  designed,  he  might  claim  her  as  his  bride. 

"So  then,  the  young  man  does  not  know,  even  at 
the  eleventh  hour!" 

Harry  heard  the  words  as  he  called,  on  the  wedding 
day.  He  found  her  in  consultation  with  an  elderly 
man,  who  was,  in  fact,  the  senior  member  in  the 
firm  of  her  legal  advisers.  There  were  certain 
papers  to  sign,  involving  the  transfer  of  property. 

"Do  you  wish  me  to  sign  without  reading?"  said 
Harry. 

"If  you  will  so  far  trust  me,"  was  her  reply. 

When  this  was  done,  there  remained  only  the 
marriage  ceremony  at  the  parish  church  at  noon. 

She  took  his  hands,  and,  looking  into  his  face  with 
her  earnest,  brown  eyes,  "You  do  not  repent,  my 
poor  Harry?" 

"Repent?     Angela!" 

"You  might  have  found  a  rich  bride.  Do  you 
deliberately  choose  a  life  of  work  and  ambition,  with 
me,  among  the  people?" 

The  lawyer  was  standing  gazing  out  of  the  window. 


36o       FIGURES  FAMED   IN   FICTION 

If  Harry  had  been  watching  him  he  would  have 
remarked  a  curiously  tremulous  movement  of  the 
shoulders. 

One  request  she  had,  if  he  would  only  trust  her. 
"Please  to  let  me  go  away,"  she  said,  "directly  the 
service  is  over,  and  not  see  me  till  the  evening 
festival  at  the  palace  opening.  Meet  me  with  my 
girls  in  the  great  hall  at  seven." 

It  was  a  strange  request,  but  he  could  refuse  her 
nothing. 

Her  dear  girls  were  to  be  her  bridesmaids,  for  they 
loved  her.  And  the  beautiful  white  dresses  and 
gloves  and  bonnets  that  Miss  Messenger  sent  for 
them  to  wear — it  was  almost  past  belief.  Their 
own  simple  gifts  to  their  benefactress  were  arranged 
on  a  table  by  themselves.  As  Angela  looked  at  them, 
and  thought  of  the  love  out  of  which  they  came,  she 
was  happier,  a  hundred  times  over,  than  she  would 
have  been  with  the  gifts  and  jewels  that  would  have 
poured  in  upon  the  young  heiress  at  her  wedding. 

It  was  noised  abroad  that  Miss  Messenger  would 
be  present  at  the  festival  that  evening.  At  the 
appointed  time,  a  train  of  carriages  from  London 
drove  to  the  doors,  and  Harry's  bride  was  escorted 
by  Lord  Jocelyn.  But  what  a  change !  For  whereas, 
in  the  morning,  she  had  been  dressed  plainly  like 
her  bridesmaids,  she  was  now  arrayed  in  white 
satin,  mystic,  wonderful,  with  white  veil  and  white 
flowers,  round  her  white  throat  a  necklace  of  spark- 
ling diamonds,  and  diamonds  in  her  hair.  Harry 
stepped  forward  with  a  beating  heart. 


ANGELA  MESSENGER  361 

"Take  her,  my  boy,"  said  Lord  Jocelyn  proudly. 
"But  you  have  married,  not  Miss  Kennedy  at  all, 
but  Angela  Messenger  herself." 

Harry  took  his  bride's  hand  in  a  kind  of  stupor. 
What  could  Lord  Jocelyn  mean! 

"Forgive  me,  Harry,"  she  said.  "Say  you 
forgive  me." 

Then  he  raised  her  veil  and  reverently  kissed  her 
forehead  before  them  all.  But  he  could  not  speak, 
because  all  in  a  moment  the  sense  of  what  this 
would  mean  poured  in  upon  his  brain  in  a  great 
wave,  and  he  fain  would  have  been  alone. 

The  girls,  frightened,  were  shrinking  together  at 
the  mighty  name  of  Messenger.  Angela  went 
among  them,  and  kissed  them  all  with  words  of 
encouragement. 

"Can  you  not  love  me,  Nelly,"  she  said,  "as  well 
when  I  am  rich  as  when  I  was  poor?" 

The  people  poured  in — for  had  not  all  the  em- 
ployees of  the  great  factory  been  invited? — and 
fifteen  hundred  sat  down  to  the  dinner.  Lord 
Jocelyn  read  the  deed  of  gift  of  the  palace,  which 
named  the  trustees,  and  handed  it  with  a  profound 
bow  to  Angela.  Then  she  stepped  forward  and 
raised  her  veil,  and  stood  before  them  all,  beautiful 
as  the  day,  and  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  Yet  she 
spoke  in  firm  and  clear  accents  which  all  could  hear. 

"My  dear  friends,  my  kind  friends,  this  palace 
has  been  originated  and  designed  for  you  by  my 
husband.  All  I  have  done  is  to  build  it.  It  is 
yours,  with  all  it  contains.     I  now  declare  it  open, 


362       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

the  property  of  the  people,  to  be  administered  by 
them  and  them  alone.  I  pray  God  it  may  be  used 
worthily,  and  that  He  will  richly  bestow  His  blessing 
to  the  end  that  it  may  open  to  you  all  the  doors  of 
the  larger  life." 

Then  Harry  spoke,  describing  the  uses  of  the 
building,  and  at  the  close  the  organ  broke  forth  and 
played  the  grand  old  Hundredth  Psalm,  and  the 
great  audience  rose  and  joined  with  their  voices. 
A  serious  ending  to  the  great  feast?  Yes,  but  life 
is  serious. 


DR.  HOPKINS 

TTE  is  sitting  in  his  quiet  study,  absorbed  in 
•^  -■■  the  sermon  he  is  writing.  It  is  good  to  look 
at  him  as  he  sits  there — a  man  of  massive  propor- 
tions, strong  in  his  early  manhood,  with  a  lofty 
forehead  and  a  face  on  which  nature  has  set  her 
stamp  of  nobility.  There  is  nothing  common 
or  insignificant  about  him.  Indeed,  it  was  said 
that  when  on  one  occasion  he  walked  in  a  pro- 
cession side  by  side  with  General  Washington,  the 
minister  in  the  majesty  of  his  gown,  bands,  cocked 
hat,  and  full-flowing  wig  was  thought  by  many 
to  be  the  more  commanding  figure  of  the  two.  As 
we  view  him  now  he  is  absorbed  in  his  theme 
with  the  abstraction  of  the  scholar;  the  tremendous 
theme  of  God  and  duty  as  it  was  conceived  by 
the  fathers,  and  we  hear  him  saying  to  himself, 
"Immaculate  virtue  is  possessed  by  the  Deity, 
but  can  it  be  the  duty  of  a  creature  to  have  it?" 
And  he  answers  the  question  in  the  affirmative, 
with  the  text  before  him,  "Be  ye  perfect,  even 
as  your  Father  in  heaven  is  perfect."  This  virtue, 
this  perfection,  he  held  to  be  the  utter  renunciation 
of  self  and  unconditional  surrender  to  the  Infinite; 
to  be  so  wholly  in  accord  with  the  Divine  will  as 
even  to  be  willing  from  the  heart  to  be  damned 
forever  if  that  should  be  for  the  glory  of  God. 
Anything,  any  sacrifice,  any  treading  in  the  dust 

oo  363 


364       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

of  human  selfishness  so  that  Almighty  God  be 
exalted  and  glorified !  It  was  a  magnificent  ideal,  but 
an  impossible  one  for  ordinary  mortals.  Our  sage, 
the  doctor,  dwelt  upon  it  in  thought  till  it  became 
to  him  the  all  of  religion.  He  knocked  out' every 
round  of  the  ladder  by  which  men  might  reach  it,  and, 
pointing  to  the  saintly  elevation,  said  to  the  world, 
' '  Go  up  thither  and  be  saved. "  Our  story  tells,  among 
other  things,  how  this  rugged  believer  lived  his  creed. 

He  lived — unmarried — in  the  family  of  the 
widow  Scudder,  respected  and  honored  as  such 
men  ever  were  honored  in  old  New  England;  and 
by  none  more  deeply  than  by  the  daughter  Mary, 
now  in  her  early  womanhood.  Beautiful  beyond 
any  in  the  whole  region,  abounding  in  the  domestic 
virtues,  sweet  in  disposition,  devoutly  religious, 
she  was  the  model  Puritan  maiden.  Thoughtful 
as  well  as  devout,  it  must  be  imagined  how  she 
drank  in  the  lofty  teaching  of  the  great  man  who 
represented  to  her  the  glory  of  infinite  truth. 

Among  her  acquaintances  her  cousin  James 
had  been  to  her  as  a  brother  all  her  years.  He  was 
a  brilliant,  dashing,  reckless,  good-hearted  fellow. 
It  is  to  be  said  also  that  he  had  no  capacity  for 
superhuman  metaphysics  and  was  accustomed  to 
make  fun  of  the  religion  of  the  time.  Ambitious, 
dissatisfied  with  the  quiet  life  of  the  seaport  town, 
he  had,  of  a  sudden,  left  his  home  and  taken  to  the 
sea.  When  news  was  brought  that  he  had  sailed 
in  the  Ariel  his  stem  father  said,  "He  went  out 
from  us  because  he  was  not  of  us!" 


DR.   HOPKINS  365 

But  old  Candace,  the  negro  servant,  who  loved 
the  truant  boy,  turned  upon  the  man,  lifting  her 
great  floury  fist  from  the  kneading  trough,  exclaim- 
ing, "Oh,  you  go  'long,  Massa  Marvyn;  ye '11  live  to 
count  dat  ar  boy  de  staff  o'  your  old  age,  now  I 
tell  ye.  Got  de  makin'  o'  ten  or'nary  men  in  him. 
Kittles  dat's  full  allers  will  bile  ober;  good  yeast 
will  blow  out  de  cork — lucky  if  it  don't  bust  de 
bottle.  I  tell  yer  de  angels  has  dere  hooks  in 
sich,  an'  when  de  Lord  wants  him  dey'll  haul  him 
in  safe  an'  soun'." 

And  when,  at  the  end  of  a  year,  James  Marvyn 
returned  home  more  manly  than  he  had  ever  been 
before,  asking  pardon  of  his  parents  and  bringing 
them — especially  his  mother — beautiful  gifts  from 
strange  lands,  Candace  contemplated  it  all  with 
increasing  satisfaction  and  grew  more  and  more 
certain  that  the  angels  were  beginning  already 
to  shorten  the  line. 

"Mary,"  said  James  one  day,  "I  can't  stand  this 
nonsense  any  longer.  Your  mother  is  bound  I 
shall  not  see  you  alone.  I  know  she  thinks  I  am 
not  good  enough  for  you,  and  I'll  admit  that  I 
am  not  religious  like  you  people,  but  then,  what's 
the  use  ?  You  people  are  all  safe  in  the  harbor,  and 
you  seem  to  look  with  suspicion  upon  one  who 
is  not,  and  who  says  it  is  all  nonsense  trying  to 
get  in.  It  seems  to  me  you  good  people  might 
care  a  little  for  a  fellow." 

"Oh,  James,  you  don't  know!  I  not  care  about 
your    soul!    Ah!    you    do    not    know    how   many, 


366       FIGURES  FAMED   IN   FICTION 

many  times  I  have  prayed  that  you  might  be  led 
to  know  God  and  love  Him.  Dr.  Hopkins  told 
us  last  Sunday  that  we  should  be  willing  to  give 
up  our  own  salvation,  if  necessary,  for  the  good  of 
others.  I  am  sure  I  feel  so.  Yes,  I  would  give 
my  very  soul  for  yours!     I  wish  I  could." 

There  was  such  a  spiritual  quality  in  her  words 
and  in  her  tone  that  James  was  still.  After  a 
moment  he  spoke  in  a  low  and  altered  voice. 

"Mary,  I  am  a  sinner.  No  sermon  ever  taught 
it  to  me,  but  I  see  it  now.  I  see,  too,  that  I  am 
not  worthy  of  you,  and  I  do  not  see  why  you  should 
ever  care  for  me  at  all." 

"Then  you  will  be  good,  James?  And  you 
will  talk  with  Dr.  Hopkins?" 

"Oh,  hang  Dr.  Hopkins!  I  can't  make  head 
or  tail  of  what  he  says.  I  can't  find  top  nor  bottom, 
nor  side,  nor  up,  nor  down  to  it.  It 's,  you  can  and 
you  can't,  you  shall  and  you  shan't,  you  will  and 
you  won't  — " 

"James!" 

"No  matter;  I  won't  say  the  rest  of  it.  And  I 
don't  want  to  slander  your  good  doctor.  He's  a 
great,  grand,  large  pattern  of  a  man,  a  man  who 
is  n't  afraid  to  say  what  he  thinks,  and  a  good 
man.  But  I  do  believe  if  he  would  take  a  voyage 
aroimd  the  world  in  the  forecastle  of  a  whaler,  he 
would  know  more  about  men  than  he  does  now. 
All  his  talk  about  high  and  mighty  things — you 
don't  know  how  it  tires  me;  I  don't  know  what  to 
make  of  it.     But,  Mary,  I  believe  in  you.     There 


DR.   HOPKINS  367 

is  something  in  you  that  I  call  religion.  The  doctor 
spent  half  a  day  last  Sunday  trying  to  tell  us  what 
holiness  is;  he  told  us  what  it  wasn't,  what  it 
was  like,  and  divided  it  and  defined  it  and  expounded 
it  enough  to  wear  you  out ;  and  I  thought  to  myself 
he'd  better  tell  'em  to  look  at  Mary  Scudder,  and 
they'd  understand  all  about  it." 

"James!" 

"Well,  never  mind,  my  dear,  but  it's  true.  Now 
Mary,  my  ship  sails  to-morrow,  and  perhaps  I 
shall  not  see  you  again.  I  was  going  to  ask  you 
for  a  promise,  but  I  won't.  Only,  Mary,  just 
give  me  your  little  Bible;  I'll  promise  to  read  it, 
and  see  what  it  all  comes  to,  and  when  I  am  tempted 
to  go  wrong  I'll  think  of  you.     And  now  good-by." 

If  Mary  had  spoken  all  that  welled  up  in  her 
heart  at  that  moment  she  might  have  said  too 
much.  She  took  her  Bible,  gave  it  with  trembling 
hand,  and  he  was  gone. 

Our  Mary  was,  as  we  have  said,  a  sober,  discreet, 
devout  soul,  devoted  to  the  higher  things  of  religion, 
but  —  she  was  a  woman.  What  did  it  avail  her  that 
she  could  say  the  Assembly's  Catechism  from 
end  to  end  without  tripping,  and  that  every  habit 
of  her  life  beat  time  to  practical  realities?  The 
wildest  Italian  singer,  nursed  on  nothing  but  excite- 
ment from  her  cradle,  never  was  more  thoroughly 
possessed  of  the  awful  and  solemn  mystery  of 
woman's  life  than  was  this  Puritan  maiden.  And 
next  day  she  made  a  discovery  that  considerably 
astonished  her,   namely,   that  all  that  had  made 


368       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

life  interesting  to  her  had  suddenly  gone.  And 
yet  she  did  not  realize  its  meaning. 

"Mary,"  said  her  mother,  "have  you  told  James 
that  you  loved  him?" 

"Yes,  mother,  always.  I  always  loved  him,  and 
he  always  knew  it." 

"Yes,  yes;  but  I  mean  something  more  than 
that." 

"Why,  mother,  I  told  him  I  loved  his  soul,  and 
would  do  anything  that  he  might  see  the  truth, 
and  would  pray  for  him.  I  want  to  see  him  a 
noble,  useful  man.  I  never  expect  to  marry  him 
or  anybody,  if  that  is  what  you  mean." 

"Well,  then,  you  would  like  to  see  him  well 
married,  would  you  not?  I  think  Jane  Spencer 
would  make  him  an  excellent  wife." 

This  was  the  keen  arrow  that  shot  a  new  pain 
through  the  young  heart.  Till  this  moment  she 
had  never  been  conscious  of  herself. 

"Oh,  mother,  mother.!"  she  exclaimed,  as  she 
hid  her  face.     "I  am  selfish,  after  all." 

But  she  took  up  the  holy  life  again,  determined 
to  live  according  to  the  highest,  and  hoping  for 
the  grace  of  God  to  come  into  his  soul;  and  as  he 
had  a  place  in  her  daily  prayers,  she  was  not  likely 
to  forget  him. 

Meantime  the  doctor  went  on  his  way,  wrestling 
with  metaphysical  problems,  speaking  the  truth 
as  God  bade  him,  and  that  without  shrinking. 
And  whenever  anything  in  the  life  of  his  parish 
needed  rebuke,  it  was  given  with  unsparing  hand. 


DR.   HOPKINS  369 

"I  must  testify,"  he  said  one  morning,  "I  must 
testify  against  this  sin  of  African  slavery."  (It 
existed  in  certain  New  England  circles  in  those 
days.) 

"In  what  way?"  asked  Mrs.  Scudder.  "It  seems 
to  me  a  difficult  subject.  There  is  Mr.  Simeon 
Brown,  one  of  the  largest  supporters  of  our  church; 
he  is  in  the  trade." 

"Difficult?  No  subject  can  be  simpler.  If  the 
system  is  wrong,  it  is  wrong.  As  for  Mr.  Brown, 
I  can  show  him  that  this  follows  logically  from  the 
theological  principles  he  holds." 

"Mr.  Brown,"  said  the  doctor,  as  he  afterwards 
met  him,  "I  should  like  to  go  on  with  our  last 
conversation.  We  did  not  quite  conclude  our 
review  of  the  argument." 

"With  all  my  heart,  doctor,"  said  the  man,  not 
a  little  flattered.     "Come  right  in." 

"Mr.  Brown,  we  believe  in  the  incomparable 
glory  of  God,  to  which  we  must  be  ready  to  make 
any  and  every  sacrifice?" 

"Certainly,  sir." 

"And  the  glory  of  God  consisteth  in  the  happiness 
of  His  rational  universe,  so  that  when  we  devote 
ourselves  to  His  glory  we  devote  ourselves  to  the 
highest  good  of  all  His  creatures?" 

"That's  clear,  sir." 

"And  in  this  we  should  be  ready  to  make  any 
sacrifice,  whether  of  ease  or  comfort  or  worldly 
goods?" 

24 


3  70       FIGURES  FAMED  IN  FICTION 

"I  trust  so,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  wondering 
what  was  coming  next. 

"My  friend,  did  it  never  occur  to  you  that  the 
enslaving  of  the  African  race  is  a  violation  of  the 
great  law  that  commands  us  to  love  our  neighbor 
as  ourselves?" 

Mr.  Brown  started.  "I  —  I  never  regarded  it 
in  that  light,  sir." 

"Possibly  not,  so  doth  custom  blind  the  eyes 
of  men.  Nevertheless,  behold  the  truth!  I  feel 
humbled  that  I  have  not  perceived  it  before,  but 
hereafter  I  shall  devote  my  best  energies  to  pro- 
claiming it,  and,  Mr.  Brown,  I  count  on  you  to 
help  me." 

"Doctor,  you  astonish  me.  I  must  say  I  think 
you  are  too  fast.  You  are  not  a  practical  man, 
doctor.  You  are  good  in  your  pulpit;  nobody 
better.  Your  theology  is  clear  and  logical.  But 
coming  to  practical  life,  why — it's  different,  you 
see."  And  at  the  end  of  the  long  discussion — 
"Well,  doctor,  you  can  do  as  you  like;  but  if  you 
go  on  with  this,  I  give  you  fair  warning  that  I, 
for  one,  shall  cancel  my  subscription  and  go  to 
Dr.  Stiles's  church." 

"Mr.  Brown,"  said  the  doctor,  "I  am  pained 
to  find  in  you  a  lack  of  true,  spiritual  illumination. 
I  much  fear  you  have  no  part  nor  lot  in  this  mat- 
ter, and  I  warn  you  to  search  the  foundation  of 
your  hope." 

The  next  Sunday  his  sermon  denouncing  the 
evil  rolled  like  a  thundercloud  over  the  heads  of 


DR.  HOPKINS  371 

the  congregation.  The  man  was  mighty  in  his 
moral  majesty.  A  Httle  child  said  afterwards, 
"I  saw  God  there,  and  I  was  afraid." 

His  supporters  left  him  one  by  one,  and  his 
salary,  never  large,  was  cut  in  two;  but  duty  was 
his  goddess,  and  he  never  looked  back.  Still  the 
friends  who  stood  by  him  were  right  loyal.  Mary 
was  useful  to  him  in  many  ways,  and  was  glad  to 
serve  him.  She  attended  to  his  study,  copied  his 
manuscripts,  was  much  in  his  society,  and  an 
intimate  friendship  inevitably  grew  between  them. 
Many  were  their  discussions  touching  the  soul's 
"evidences  of  grace,"  as  they  called  them  then, 
and  the  holy  man  came  to  regard  her  as  the  priestess 
of  an  inner  shrine.  Hearing  her  sweet  voice  in 
song,  as  she  went  about  the  house,  now  here  now 
there,  he  was  charmed,  he  knew  not  why,  and  fell 
to  thinking  of  angels  and  the  millennium. 

"Mrs.  Scudder,"  said  Miss  Prissy  the  dress- 
maker, ' '  I  know  folks  like  me  should  n't  have 
their  eyes  open  too  wide,  but  then  I  can't  help 
noticing  some  things.  Did  you  notice  the  doctor 
when  we  were  telling  him  about  Mary,  what  a  gift 
of  prayer  she  has  in  the  Ladies'  Circle?  Why,  he 
colored  all  up,  and  the  tears  came  into  his  eyes. 
It's  my  belief  that  that  blessed  man  worships  the 
ground  she  treads  on.  Well,  well,  I  don't  know — 
but  what  a  minister's  wife  she'd  be!  All  the 
ladies  are  talking  about  it."  But  Mrs.  Scudder 
wisely  kept  her  own  counsel.  She  could  not  abide 
the  thought  of  giving  her  Mary  to  the  unregenerate 


372       FIGURES  FAMED   IN   FICTION 

James  Marv>'n.  However,  a  three  years'  voyage 
was  a  long  one,  she  thought,  and  meanwhile  much 
might  happen. 

Mary,  during  this  time,  walked  daily  by  the  sea, 
and  thought  of  the  white-winged  ship  so  far  away, 
and  hoped  and  prayed  for  the  soul  of  her  sailor 
boy.  Returning  one  day  from  one  of  these  walks 
by  the  sea,  as  she  approached  the  house  she  heard 
the  sound  of  Miss  Prissy's  voice,  and  the  words  that 
fell  on  her  ear  were  these: 

"Mrs.  Marvyn  fainted  dead  away.  She  stood 
it  till  it  came  to  that,  and  then  she  fell  as  if  she  had 
been  shot.     The  vessel — " 

And  her  poor  heart  divined  the  rest.  They  laid 
her  on  her  mother's  bed — that  first  and  last  resting 
place  for  broken  hearts — and  at  a  sign  from  Mrs. 
Scudder  the  doctor  began  to  pray.  "Lord,  thou 
hast  been  our  dwelling  place  in  all  generations." 
The  great  heart,  so  strong  and  tender,  forgot  its 
dogmas  of  election,  and  rose  like  a  blessed  angel 
whose  wings  shed  healing  dews  of  paradise. 

The  next  day  Mary  learned  about  the  wreck  of 
the  vessel,  and  a  yearning  came  over  her  to  go  to 
his  mother  and  comfort  her. 

Mrs.  Marvyn  was  a  peculiarly  thoughtful  woman. 
She  lived  in  the  atmosphere  of  doubt  in  view  of  the 
tremendous  doctrines.  And  now  to  think  that 
God  had  foreordained  that  her  boy,  the  light  of 
her  life,  should  be  taken  from  her,  only  to  be  lost 
forever,  was  more  than  she  could  bear.  She  walked 
the  floor  in  a  mad  despair. 


DR.   HOPKINS  373 

"It  is  frightful!"  she  exclaimed,  "It  is  awful! 
No  end,  no  bottom,  no  shore,  no  hope!     O  God! 

0  God!     Leave  me  alone,  all  of  you!     I  tell  you, 

1  am  a  lost  spirit!" 

Mary  summoned  the  household.  "Oh,  do  come 
in  quick!     I  am  afraid  her  mind  is  going." 

"Lor'  bress  ye.  Squire  Marvyn,  we  won't  hab 
her  goin'  on  dis  yer  way,"  said  the  great,  motherly 
Candace.  "Do  talk  gospel  to  her,  can't  ye?  Ef 
you  can't,  I  will. 

"Come,  ye  poor  lamb,  come  to  ole  Candace!" 
and  with  that  she  gathered  the  pale  form  to  her 
bosom,  and  sat  down  and  began  rocking  her  as  if 
she  had  been  a  babe.  "Honey,  darlin',  ye  ain't 
right — dar's  a  drefful  mistake  somewhere.  Why, 
de  Lord  ain't  what  ye  t'ink — He  loves  ye,  honey. 
Who  was  it  wore  de  crown  o'  thorns,  lamb?  Who 
was  it  said,  'Father,  forgive  dem'?  Say,  honey, 
wasn't  it  de  Lord  dat  made  ye?  Dar,  dar,  now 
ye 're  cryin' !  Cry  away,  an'  ease  yer  poor  heart. 
Why,  de  Lord  died  for  Massr  Jim — loved  him  an' 
died  for  him;  laws,  jest  leave  him  in  His  han's, 
dear.  Yes,  yes,  our  doctor's  a  mighty  great 
preacher,  and  a  good  man,  an'  in  fair  wedder  it's 
all  right  to  hear  de  mighty  t'ings  he's  got  to  say. 
But,  honey,  dey  won't  do  for  ye  now.  Jes'  come 
right  down  whar  poor  ole  black  Candace  has  to 
stay  allers.  It's  a  good  place,  darlin'.  Look 
right  to  de  Lord  Jesus;  tell  ye,  honey,  ye  can't 
lib  no  oder  way  now." 

Thus  she  spoke  in  the  child  language  of  her  race, 


374       FIGURES  FAMED   IN   FICTION 

and  the  peace  of  God  stole  into  the  rebellious  soul, 
and  made  it  captive. 

And  Mary!  She  would  have  given  her  own 
soul  for  his  salvation ;  and  now  she  found  it  doubted 
on  every  hand. 

"Honey,"  said  Candace  mysteriously,  "don't 
ye  go  to  troublin'  yer  mind  'bout  dat  ar.  I'm 
cl'ar  dat  Massr  James  is  one  ob  de  'lect;  an  I'm 
cl'ar  dar's  conside'ble  more  o'  de  'lect  dan  people 
t'ink.  Why,  Jesus  didn't  die  fer  nuffin;  all  dat 
love  ain't  goin'  to  be  wasted.  So  don't  ye  go  to 
lay  in'  on  yer  poor  heart  what  no  mortal  creeter 
can  bear." 

Well,  the  time  came — we  have  seen  it  approach- 
ing— when  the  good  doctor,  deliberately  yet  with 
much  misgiving,  asked  Mrs.  Scudder  for  her 
daughter's  hand.  But  when  she  bore  the  message 
to  Mary,  the  surprise,  the  confusion,  the  doubting, 
the  conflict,  were  pitiful  to  see. 

"Oh,  mother,"  she  exclaimed,  "let  me  cry  just 
for  a  little!  Oh,  mother,  mother!"  was  the  despair- 
ing wail  under  which  was  hidden  the  parting  of 
the  last  strand  of  the  cord  of  youthful  hope.  The 
struggle  was  such  as  few  may  know. 

Finally,  however,  her  promise  was  given,  and 
her  mother  bore  the  intelligence  to  the  doctor,  who 
awaited  his  fate,  perfectly  certain  that  he  was 
going  to  be  refused.  When  he  heard  the  words, 
"She  has  accepted,"  he  turned  quickly  round  and 
walked  to  the  window,  and  stood  there  quietly, 
swallowing   hard   and   wiping   his   eyes.     Soon    he 


DR.   HOPKINS  375 

returned  and  said,  "I  trust,  dear  madam,  that  this 
very  dear  friend  may  never  have  reason  to  think 
me  ungrateful  for  her  wonderful  goodness,  and  I 
hope  I  may  never  forget  the  undeserved  mercy  of 
this  hour." 

"Mother,"  said  Mary  the  next  morning,  "I 
would  like  to  see  the  doctor  a  few  minutes  alone." 

As  the  doctor  sat  in  his  study,  the  door  suddenly 
opened  and  Mary  entered  like  a  white  saint,  her  eyes 
calmly  radiant,  her  whole  manner  serious  and 
celestial. 

The  doctor  bowed  his  head  and  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands. 

"Dear  friend,"  said  Mary,  kneeling  at  his  feet, 
"if  you  want  me,  I  am  come." 

And  the  doctor — no,  the  study  door  closed 
just  then,  and  we  know  nothing  more. 

Well,  there  was  gossip  and  bustle  enough  in  the 
parish;  and  it  is  a  rare  tribute  to  our  heroine  that 
the  alliance  was  commended  on  every  hand.  Yet 
there  was  variety  of  comment.  One  spirited  maiden 
declared  that,  for  her  part,  she  never  could  see 
into  it  how  any  girl  could  marry  a  minister;  she 
should  as  soon  think  of  setting  up  housekeeping 
in  a  meetinghouse.  "Now,  other  men,"  she  went 
on,  "let  you  have  some  peace,  but  a  minister's 
always  round  under  your  feet."  And  the  same 
irrepressible  said  to  Mary,  later,  that  she  did  n't 
see,  for  her  part,  how  she  could  keep  so  calm  when 
things  were  coming  so  near;  and  Mary's  only 
answer  was  a  smile. 


376       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

In  the  midst  of  all  the  bustle — the  quiltings 
and  the  dressmaking  and  the  cooking — black 
Candace  had  thoughts  of  her  own,  and  revealed 
them  in  confidence  to  her  friend.  They  were 
talking  of  dreams  and  signs. 

"Some  folks  say,"  said  Candace,  "dat  dreams 
'bout  white  horses  is  a  sure  sign;  specially  if  it's 
just  arter  bird-peep;  I've  know'd  it  to  come  true 
dat  some  fren'  was  dead." 

"And  then  there's  dogs  howling  under  windows," 
said  the  other.  "O'  course  I  don't  believe  in  it, 
but  I  never  knew  it  fail  that  there  was  a  death  in 
the  house  after." 

"Ah!  I  tell  ye  what,"  said  Candace,  "dogs  knows 
a  heap  more'n  dey  likes  to  tell.  Now  look  here," 
she  went  on,  "I  hain't  neber  opened  my  mind  to 
nobody,  but  dere's  a  dream  I'se  had  tree  mornin's 
runnin'  lately,  dat  I  saw  Jim  Marvyn  a-sinkin' 
in  de  water  an'  stretchin'  up  his  han's;  an'  de  Lord 
Jesus  come  a-walkin'  on  de  water  and  take  hold 
ob  his  han',  an'  says  he,  'O  thou  of  little  faith, 
wherefore  didst  thou  doubt!'" 

"Well,  well,  well,"  said  the  other.  "But,  you 
see,  it  may  be  something  about  the  state  of  his 
soul." 

"I  know  dat,"  said  Candace,  "but  as  nigh  as  I 
could  judge  in  my  dream,  dat  boy's  soul  was  in  his 
body.'' 

It  was  one  week  before  the  day  appointed  for 
the  wedding.     The  sun  was  just  setting,  and  the 


DR.    HOPKINS  377 

whole  air  andl  andscape  were  flooded  with  color; 
through  the  tremulous,  rosy  sea  of  the  upper  air 
the  silver  full  moon  looked  out  in  the  calm  of  her 
quiet  glory,  and  Mary  was  walking  by  the  sea. 
She  fell  into  one  of  those  reveries  which  she  thought 
she  had  forever  forbidden  herself;  and  there  rose 
before  her  eyes  the  picture  of  a  marriage  service, 
—  but  the  eyes  of  the  bridegroom  were  dark,  his 
wavy  hair  was  black  as  raven's  wing,  and  in  her 
heart  was  an  infinite  pain. 

The  road  wound  through  a  little  grove  of  cedars 
close  by  the  surf.  Suddenly  she  heard  footsteps 
behind  her,  and  some  one  said,  "Mary!" 

She  turned,  and  saw  the  embodiment  of  her 
vision — the  same  familiar  face,  the  same  manly 
form! 

"Oh,  James!  Is  this  a  dream?  Is  this  a  dream? 
Are  we  in  heaven?  Oh,  I  thought  you  would  never, 
never  come!" 

They  spoke  of  love  mightier  than  death,  which 
many  waters  cannot  quench.  They  spoke  of  longing 
prayers,  of  hope  deferred,  and  then  of  this  great  joy. 
And  he  told  her  how  he  had  read  her  Bible;  how 
he  had  resolved  in  the  quiet  of  his  heart  to  try  to 
live  as  God  would  have  him — that  her  God  should 
be  his  God ;  how  the  shipwreck  came  as  a  Day  of 
Judgment,  only  to  bring  heaven  near;  and  how  he 
had  come  home  with  a  whole  new  world  of  thought 
and  feehng  in  his  heart. 

And  yet  as  they  talked  the  moment  came  when 
the  charm   was  broken,   when   the   beautiful   soul 


378       FIGURES  FAMED  IN  FICTION 

came  out  of  dreamland  back  to  life.  It  was  when 
he  spoke  of  the  future;  and  she  told  him  she  had 
opened  her  mouth  in  solemn  promise,  and  she  could 
not  go  back. 

Argument  and  entreaty  alike  were  vain,  for  was 
not  duty  the  goddess  of  her  soul?  What  it  cost 
her  no  one  might  know.  The  mighty  wealth  of 
passion  might  storm  her  heart,  but  she  would  not 
prove  a  traitor  to  duty  and  the  right.  And  so 
when  she  had  fully  conquered,  and  sang  in  the 
choir  the  next  Sunday  with  his  rich  voice  near  her 
as  of  old,  she  felt  sublimely  upborne  with  the  idea 
that  life  is  but  for  a  moment,  and  that  love  is  im- 
mortal. And  as  she  sang,  the  doctor,  from  the 
pulpit,  looked  upward  and  marveled  at  the  light 
in  her  eyes  and  the  glory  of  her  transfigured  beauty, 
and  his  soul  took  wing  in  the  fervor  of  his  prayer. 

Well,  out  in  social  circles  and  among  the  friends 
of  the  young  people  there  was  commotion.  Black 
Candace  and  the  irrepressible  dressmaker  held 
high  consultation. 

"Now,"  said  the  former,  "dar 's  reason  in  all  t'ings, 
an'  a  good  deal  more  reason  in  some  t'ings  dan  dar 
is  in  oders.  As  long  as  eberybody  thought  Jim 
Marvyn  was  dead,  dar  war  n't  nothin'  else  in  de 
world  to  be  done  but  marry  de  doctor.  But  now  — 
I  heard  Jim  a-talkin'  to  his  mother  las'  night, 
an'  it  mos'  broke  my  heart.  Miss  Mary,  she  has 
too  much  feelin'  for  de  doctor  to  say  a  word,  and  I 
say  he  oughter  be  told  on't;  dat's  what  I  say." 

"I  say  so,  too,"  said  Miss  Prissy;  and  the  upshot 


DR.    HOPKINS  379 

of  the  long  discussion  was  in  the  resolution,  "I 
guess  to-night,  before  I  go  to  bed,  I'll  make  a  dive 
at  him." 

"It  isn't  about  myself,  doctor,"  said  she,  when 
admitted  to  an  interview.  "If  you  please,  it's 
about  you  and  Mary.  Did  you  know,  doctor," 
almost  choking  with  fright  as  she  went  on,  "did 
you  know  that  Mary  and  James  Marvyn  had 
loved  each  other  ever  since  they  were  children, 
and  she  can  never  love  any  other  man  in  the  world 
as  she  loves  him?" 

"Madam!"  said  the  doctor,  in  a  voice  that 
frightened  the  little  woman  out  of  her  chair,  while 
a  blaze  like  sheet-lightning  shot  from  his  eyes,  and 
his  face  flushed  crimson. 

"Mercy  on  us,  doctor!  I  hope  you'll  pardon 
me.  But  there!  I've  said  it  out.  She'll  keep  her 
promise  to  you  if  it  breaks  her  heart.  They 
would  n't  tell  you,  and  so  I  've  told  you  on  my 
own  account,  because  I  thought  you  ought  to 
know  it." 

The  doctor  had  gone  to  the  window,  and  was 
standing  with  his  back  toward  her.  He  made  a 
gesture  backward  without  speaking,  indicating  that 
she  should  leave.  And  then,  then,  alone  with  God, 
he  had  his  dark  hour,  unseen  by  man.  At  such 
times  as  these,  when  the  soul  cries  out,  "This  or 
nothing!"  men  have  plunged  into  intemperance 
or  wild  excess,  they  have  gone  to  be  shot  down  in 
battle,  breaking  their  life  and  throwing  it  away 
Hke   an   empty   goblet — the   wine    was   bitterness 

24 


38o       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

itself — and  have  gone  like  wailing  ghosts  out  into 
the  dread  unknown.  Tlie  possibility  of  all  this  lay 
in  that  soul  which  had  just  received  this  stunning 
blow.  Although  he  had  lived  a  life  of  the  sternest 
self-control,  he  found  his  heart  to  be  none  the  less 
an  ocean-tempest  of  passion.  For  a  time  it  was 
seething  in  wild  rebellion.  He  had  thought  him- 
self established  in  a  submission  to  the  will  of  God 
that  nothing  conceivable  by  man  could  shake. 
But  now  he  was,  for  the  time  at  least,  shaken  to 
the  very  center  of  his  being.  He  walked  the  room 
for  hours,  with  clenched  hands  and  tense  frame. 
Then  he  sat  down  to  his  Bible,  but  his  thoughts 
wandered  far,  very,  very  far  from  its  sacred  pages. 
Then  he  set  himself  to  some  definite  mental  work, 
and  held  to  it  with  a  dumb  tenacity,  till  at  last  he 
worked  himself  down  to  such  calmness  that  he 
could  pray.  And  then  he  reasoned  with  himself, 
strongly  and  sternly,  till  at  last  he  could  say  to 
himself,  "O  soul  of  mine,  what  is  it  that  thou  art 
fretting  and  self -tormenting  about?  Is  it  because 
thou  art  not  happy?  Who  told  thee  that  thou 
wast  to  be  happy?  Is  there  any  ordinance  of  the 
universe  that  thou  shouldst  be  happy?  Art  thou 
nothing  but  a  vulture,  screaming  for  prey?  Canst 
thou  not  do  without  happiness?  Yea,  thou  canst 
do  without  happiness,  and  instead  thereof  find 
blessedness."  And  so  he  came  at  last  to  rest  upon 
the  solid  rock  of  his  faith — unselfishness,  the  great 
duty  of  man.  He  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
blessedness,  which  was  all  the  portion  his  Master 


DR.    HOPKINS  381 

had  on  earth,  might  do  for  him  also.  And  so  he 
kissed  and  blessed  that  silver  dove  of  happiness, 
which  he  saw  was  weary  of  sailing  in  his  own  ark, 
and  let  it  go  out  of  his  hand  without  a  tear. 

He  slept  little  that  night;  but  when  he  came  to 
breakfast  all  noticed  his  unusual  gentleness  and 
benignity  of  manner.  And  Mary  saw  tears  rising 
in  his  eyes  when  he  looked  at  her,  and  she  wondered, 
knowing  not  the  reason. 

An  hour  later  word  was  brought  to  James  and 
Mary  that  the  doctor  would  like  to  see  them  in  his 
room.  They  entered,  wondering  what  was  coming. 
When  they  were  seated,  there  was  a  pause  of  some 
minutes,  during  which  the  doctor  sat  with  his  head 
leaning  upon  his  hand. 

"You  both  know,"  he  said,  "the  near  and  dear 
relation  in  which  I  have  expected  to  stand  toward 
this  friend.  I  had  not  been  worthy  of  it  had  I  not 
felt  that  in  case  any  trouble  threatened  this  dear 
soul  I  could  give  myself  for  her,  even  as  Christ  gave 
Himself  for  the  Church.  I  have  just  discovered," 
looking  kindly  upon  Mary,  "that  there  is  a  great 
cross  and  burden  which  must  come  either  on  this 
dear  child  or  on  myself,  through  no  fault  of  either 
of  us,  but  through  God's  good  providence;  and 
therefore  let  me  bear  it.  Mary,  my  dear  child,  I 
will  be  to  thee  as  a  father,  but  I  will  not  force  thy 
heart." 

At  this  moment,  Mary,  by  a  sudden,  impulsive 
movement,  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck,  exclaim- 
ing, "No!  no!  I  will  marry  you,  as  I  said!" 


SS2       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

"Not  if  I  will  not,"  he  said  with  a  benign  smile. 
"Come  here,  young  man,"  he  said  to  James.  "I 
give  thee  this  maiden  to  wife."  And  he  placed 
her  gently  in  his  arms. 

"There,  children,  it  is  over!"  he  said,  "God 
bless  you." 

"Sir,"  said  James,  as  he  grasped  the  doctor's 
hand,  "I  have  no  words  to  thank  you.  This  tells 
on  my  heart  more  than  any  sermon  you  ever 
preached.  I  shall  never,  never  forget  it  so  long 
as  I  live!" 

They  slowly  left  the  room,  and  the  grand  hero, 
closing  the  door  upon  them,  closed  it  also  upon 
the  future  that  had  opened  so  brightly  before  him. 

There  is  only  a  word  upon  what  came  afterward. 
The  wedding,  when  it  came,  was  something  to 
touch  the  heart.  As  the  young  couple  came  in  — 
the  bride  a  dream  of  loveliness — the  doctor  greeted 
them  with  a  peaceful  smile  which  was  a  benediction. 
Mary  grew  white  as  if  she  were  going  to  faint. 
When  all  was  ready,  the  doctor  began  his  prayer. 
The  great  sacrifice  he  had  made,  fresh  in  the  minds 
of  all  —  one  must  try  to  imagine  the  wave  of  feeling 
that  swept  through  the  company.  As  he  com- 
mended the  young  souls  to  the  mercies  of  the  Great 
Father,  and  prayed  for  rich  blessing  to  come  into 
their  life,  the  tears  fell  everywhere  like  a  summer 
shower.  Heaven  seemed  to  come  down  nearer; 
and  so  they  were  married. 

And  when  James,  by  and  by,  would  confess  his 
faith,   the  doctor  prepared  to  examine  him  very 


DR.   HOPKINS  383 

carefully  as  to  his  evidences;  and  he  seemed  so 
anxious  because  the  candidate  failed  to  talk  in 
the  regular  way.  But  when  James  asked  to  tell  his 
story,  and,  in  straightforward,  manly  fashion  re- 
counted the  way  in  which  he  had  been  led  by  the 
Father's  hand,  of  Mary's  Bible  and  the  shipwreck 
and  the  loving-kindness  of  the  Lord,  the  doctor's 
spectacles  got  all  blinded  with  tears,  so  that  he 
could  n't  see  the  notes  he  had  made  to  examine  him 
by;  and  he  cut  it  all  short  with  saying,  "Let  us 
pray!" 

Grand,  pure,  heroic  soul !  His  system  of  thinking 
was  obsolete  long  ago,  but  the  moral  quality  of  it 
still  challenges  the  admiration  of  men. 


MR.  CRUPP  OF  BARTON 

'T^HERE  was  a  monster  temperance  meeting  in 
•*■  the  town  of  Barton.  It  had  been  advertised 
so  widely  and  anticipated  so  long  that  the  town  hall 
was  crowded  to  the  doors.  Squire  Tomple,  the 
richest  and  fattest  citizen,  was  chosen  chairman, 
and  the  four  pastors,  with  others,  were  on  the  plat- 
form. The  band  gave  some  rousing  temperance 
music,  the  Reverend  Brown  prayed  earnestly  that 
intemperance  might  cease  to  reign,  and  a  very 
affecting  temperance  song  called  "Don't  you  go. 
Tommy,"  was  sung  by  the  Crystal  Spring  Glee  Club. 
The  chairman  then  introduced  Major  Ben  Bailey, 
the  famous  temperance  orator,  who  inveighed  against 
the  drink  demon  in  the  usual  way,  exhibited  statis- 
tics, told  stories,  sketched  a  touching  picture  of  a 
drunkard's  home,  and  closed  with  a  dramatic  appeal 
to  all  present  to  beware  of  the  flowing  bowl.  It  was 
all  trite  enough  and  hackneyed,  but  its  effect,  some- 
how or  other,  was  out  of  all  proportion  to  its  merit. 
For  when  the  pledges  were  circulated — which  was 
done  with  a  rush,  everything  being  ready  therefor — 
everybody  began  to  sign.  The  list  was  publicly 
read  from  time  to  time,  and  soon  included  not  only 
the  names  of  all  the  respectable  citizens — as  usual — 
but  also  those  of  some  of  the  heaviest  drinkers  in 
town.  And,  to  crown  all,  the  chairman  announced 
that  their  fellow  citizen,  Mr.  Jonathan  Crupp,  who 

384 


MR.   CRUPP  OF  BARTON  385 

had  been  a  large  vender  of  intoxicating  liquors,  had 
declared  his  intention  of  abandoning  the  business 
forever.  There  was  great  applause,  the  four  pastors 
shook  hands  enthusiastically  with  each  other,  and 
in  the  midst  of  the  excitement  Mr.  Crupp  was  thrust 
upon  the  platform.  He  was  a  hard-headed,  practical 
man  with  no  sentiment  about  him,  and  evidently 
did  not  enter  into  the  enthusiasm.  He  simply  reaf- 
firmed his  decision  in  a  quiet,  firm,  nonchalant  way. 

The  meeting  over.  Squire  Tomple  took  Mr.  Crupp's 
arm  and  walked  off  with  him,  appropriating  him  in 
full  as  a  matter  of  course,  being  himself  the  richest 
man  in  town.  He  swung  his  cane  in  a  superior  way, 
as  if  he  felt  himself  master  of  the  situation,  and  that 
the  great  drink  evil  had  been  practically  conquered 
in  Barton. 

"Crupp,"  said  he,  "you've  done  the  right  thing. 
You  might  have  done  it  sooner,  but  you  can  do  a 
great  deal  of  good  yet." 

"Yes,  if  I'm  helped  at  it,"  he  quietly  replied. 

"Helped?  Of  course  you'll  be  helped  if  you  pray 
for  it.  You've  repented;  now  address  the  throne 
of  Grace,  and — " 

"Yes,  I  know,  I'm  not  entirely  unacquainted 
with  the  Lord  if  I  have  sold  rum.  His  help  is  always 
in  order,  I'll  allow.  But  just  now  it's  help  from 
men  that  I  want,  and  I  'm  afraid  I  shan't  be  able  to 
get  it." 

"Why,  Crupp,  you  cannot  be  in  any  need;  you 
must  have  made  something  out  of  your  business 
if  it  is  an  infernal  one." 

25 


3S6       FIGURES  FAMED   IN   FICTION 

"I  don't  mean  that,  squire.  Just  let  me  explain. 
We  agree  that  it 's  all  right  for  drinking  men  to  sign 
pledges,  but  pledges  can  never  quiet  an  uneasy 
stomach,  no  way  you  can  fix  'em.  And  the  fact 
is  that  the  drinking  fellows  that  signed  to-night  will 
be  a'^'ful  thirsty  in  the  morning." 

"Well,  they  must  pray,  and  act  like  men." 

"Oh,  yes;  but  some  of  'em  don't  believe  in  prayin* 
and  some  of  'em  can't  act  like  men  because  it  is  n't 
in  'em.  Now  what  I  mean  by  needin'  help  is  this; 
I  know  just  about  how  much  every  drinkin'  man  in 
town  takes,  an'  when  he  takes  it,  an'  about  when  he 
gets  on  his  sprees.  Now  if  there 's  anybody  to  take 
an  interest  in  these  fellows  at  such  times,  they're 
going  to  have  plenty  of  chances  mighty  soon." 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Crupp,  instead  of  knocking 
in  the  heads  of  his  liquor  barrels  as  some  had  ex- 
pected, closed  out  the  entire  lot  at  the  highest  price 
it  would  bring.  "It  was  good  liquor,"  he  said,  "the 
very  best,  and  would  do  considerable  good  if  it 
was  only  used  properly."  He  then  set  himself  to 
work,  and  his  first  move  was  to  call  upon  the  Rev. 
Jonas  Wedgewell. 

"Ah!  my  valiant  friend,"  said  the  enthusiastic 
parson,  "you  have  made  a  noble  stand!  The  morn- 
ing songs  of  the  angels  must  have  been  sweeter  as 
they  thought  of  your  noble  deed.  Your  ill-gotten 
gains — surely  they  will  now  be  consecrated  to  the 
Lord." 

"Excuse  me,  parson,  but  they  won't,  for  I  never 
had  any  ill-gotten  gains.     I  never  sold  anything  but 


MR.  CRUPP  OF  BARTON  3S7 

good  liquor,  and  the  price  was  always  fair.  I  never 
sold  any  liquor  to  a  drunken  man,  either.  What  I 
came  to  you  for  is  this;  I  know  all  about  these 
drinking  fellows,  and  those  who  signed  last  night 
are  going  to  have  a  job  on  their  hands." 

"Well,  my  dear  sir,  prayer  — " 

"Oh,  wait  a  minute,  parson.  Prayer  never  cured 
a  dyspeptic  stomach  that  I  ever  heard  of,  nor  a 
man's  hankering  for  whisky,  either.  But  these 
fellows  can  be  kept  from  falling  into  the  old  ways 
again,  I  believe,  but  they  've  got  to  be  handled  care- 
fully, and  what  I  came  to  you  for  was  to  ask  who 
is  going  to  do  the  handling.  Now  the  question  is, 
who's  free-handed  with  money  in  your  congrega- 
tion?" 

The  effect  of  this  short  speech  upon  the  parson 
was  marvelously  depressing.  His  face  fell,  his  eyes 
enlarged  behind  his  glasses,  and  he  stared  in  a  help- 
less way. 

"Look  here,  parson,"  resumed  the  other,  "let 
us  get  down  to  business.  There's  Tom  Adams  that 
drives  the  brickyard  team.  Tom's  a  good,  square, 
honest  fellow,  and  he  loves  his  family,  but  I  don't 
see  how  he's  going  to  stop  drinking.  He  can't 
work  without  it;  leastways,  he  can't  work  the  way 
he's  working  now.  Deacon  Jones  ought  to  let  up 
on  his  work  a  little  till  he  can  bring  himself  around ; 
but  Deacon  Jones  won't  waste  his  money  in  that  way 
if  he  is  a  member  of  your  church.  Then  there's 
old  Bunley;  there  isn't  anything  to  him.  He's 
been  drinking  and  drinking  and  drinking  this  forty 


388       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

year,  and  yet  he  was  well  brought  up,  and  he  has 
some  children,  too,  that  are  worth  saving.  But  he 's 
always  in  debt  and  always  discouraged.  If  some 
one  would  take  hold  and  give  him  a  lift  for  three 
months,  who  knows  what  it  might  do  for  him? 
Then  there's  young  Fred  Macdonald;  he's  going  to 
be  the  hardest  man  to  manage  in  the  whole  lot. 
Good  family,  you  know;  got  a  judge  for  a  father 
and  ambitious  as  the — as  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 
He's  all  in  with  the  steamboat  fellows — steamboat- 
ing,  you  know,  looks  big  to  him;  shows  off  well,  and 
so  on  —  and  they'll  ruin  him  sure.  It's  no  use 
talking  to  him;  he's  proud  as  the  —  as  Lucifer,  and 
he'll  tell  you  to  mind  your  own  business.  Now  if 
some  of  the  business  men  would  get  up  some- 
thing enterprising  and  put  Fred  at  the  head  of  it, 
on  condition  that  he  would  n't  drink,  why,  they 
might  make  a  little  money  and  help  him  into  the 
bargain." 

"Mr.  Crupp,"  said  the  parson,  "I  confess  that 
your  treatment  of  the  subject  is  one  to  which  I  am 
entirely  unaccustomed;  but  I  believe  you  are  in 
earnest,  and  thereat  I  rejoice.  But  in  these  matters 
I  do  not  think  I  am  a  capable  adviser.  I  would 
suggest  that  you  consult  some  of  our  business  men." 

"That's  what  I  am  going  to  do.  What  I  want  of 
you  is  to  back  me  up,  and  preach  at  these  good  people 
who  are  well  enough  off  and  who  hold  their  pocket- 
books  so  tight." 

"I'll  do  it!  I'll  do  it!  A  suitable  text  has 
already  providentially  entered  my  mind.     'Am   I 


MR.   CRUPP  OF  BARTON  389 

my  brother's  keeper?'  Three  heads  and  applica- 
tion. First,  demonstrate  that  every  man  is  his 
brother's  keeper;  second,  show  how  in  the  divine 
economy  it  is  wise  that  this  should  be  so;  third, 
the  example  of  Christ.  Application,  our  duty  to  the 
needy  in  our  midst !  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear 
Mr.  Crupp,  but  if  you  have  other  calls  to  make,  I 
will  repair  at  once  to  my  study  and  prepare  a  dis- 
course based  upon  this  text.  Excuse  my  seeming 
rudeness  in  thus  abruptly  closing  our  interview, 
but  my  soul  is  on  fire  with  an  ardor — " 

"Oh,  certainly,"  said  the  other.  "Business  is 
business;  it's  so  in  the  liquor  trade,  and  I  suppose 
it  is  in  preaching.     Good  day." 

Tom  Adams  was  employed  by  Deacon  Jones  only 
six  months  in  the  year,  but  business  was  driving 
in  the  busy  season,  and  he  worked  from  daylight 
till  dark.  It  was  too  much  for  him,  and  when  he 
called  in  the  aid  of  a  stimulant — as  he  sometimes 
did — the  result  was  too  often  a  spree  of  two  or 
three  days'  duration.  In  the  winter  he  had  no 
regular  work,  and  the  result  was  no  better.  The 
Sunday  after  he  signed  the  pledge  was  a  dreary  day. 
People  seemed  to  look  at  him  sidewise,  as  if  their 
eyes  were  asking,  "Are  you  keeping  your  pledge?" 
And  his  loving  wife  gave  him  such  a  beseeching  look 
whenever  he  left  the  house  that  he  almost  hated  her 
for  her  anxiety. 

"Tom,"  said  the  deacon  on  Monday  morning, 
"about  this  temperance  business;  you  signed  the 
pledge  the  other  night?" 


390       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

"Yes,  an'  kep'  it,  too!" 

"I'm  glad  of  it,  Tom;  there's  times  when  you 
did  n't,  you  know.  Now,  could  n't  I  help  you  a 
little?  I've  heard  'em  say  that  when  men  work 
too  hard  they  sometimes  take  to  drink  to  brace 
'em  up.  P'raps  't  would  be  better  for  you  to  work 
only  ten  hours  a  da}^  Say !  vSupposing  we  make  it 
that,  and  I  give  you  work  all  the  year  round  at 
seventy-five  cents  a  day;  would  it  help  you  any  to 
keep  straight?" 

"Would  it?"  said  Tom,  wrinkling  his  brows  and 
eying  the  deacon  incredulously.  "Would  it?  Well, 
I  should  say!" 

"Well,  then,  I'll  do  it.  Of  course,  you  won't 
mind  workin'  pretty  middlin'  faithful  if  you  have 
shorter  hours;  and  I  shall  have  to  put  you  on  some 
at  the  pork  house,  where  we  have  to  pay  more  — 
but  then,  you  won't  mind  helpin'  out  in  that  way 
on  what  we  lose  on  you  other  ways.  But  mind,  no 
fooling  with  whisky  if  I  do  all  this  by  you." 

"Nary  drop,  sir!  Ten  minutes  ago  I  wouldn't 
have  given  a  pewter  dime  for  my  chance  of  stickin' 
to  it  through  the  day;  but  now  I  wouldn't  give  a 
cent  for  a  barrel  of  ten-year-old  rye." 

"There!"  said  the  deacon  as  he  walked  home. 
' '  I  wonder  if  that  '11  suit  Crupp  and  Brother  Wedge- 
well.  Queer  that  Crupp  should  have  bothered  me 
two  hours  Saturday  night,  and  the  preacher  should 
have  come  out  so  strong  about  being  our  brother's 
keepers  the  very  next  day.  'T  was  a  Christian  act 
for  me  to  do,  too!    And  the  joke  of  it  is  I  shan't 


MR.   CRUPP  OF  BARTON  391 

lose  a  cent  by  the  operation;  I  can  keep  him  busy 
enough!  It  makes  a  man  feel  good,  though,  to 
do  a  kindness  for  his  fellow  man." 

As  for  Tom  Adams,  he  mounted  the  wagon  and 
seized  the  reins.  "Thunder  and  light'nin' !  I  '11  just 
drive  round  by  the  back  street  and  tell  the  old 
woman!  Reckon  she  won't  look  at  me  any  more 
that  way  now!" 

On  the  way  he  met  Mr.  Crupp. 

"The  old  man's  engaged  me  for  a  year  at  six  bits 
a  day,  and  only  ten  hours  a  day  to  work ! "  he  shouted. 

"The  devil!"  said  Mr.  Crupp,  and  hurried  off  to 
the  parsonage.  ' '  First  blood,  parson ! "  he  exclaimed. 
"Old  Jones  has  hired  Tom  for  a  year,  and  he's  got 
only  ten  hours  a  day  to  work!" 

' '  Bless  the  Lord !  Who  would  have  thought  that 
so  undemonstrative  a  man  would  have  been  the 
first  to  heed  the  word  of  exhortation!" 

"He's  the  first  to  see  money  in  it;  that's  why." 

"My  dear  sir!  Do  you  really  ascribe  Deacon 
Jones's  meritorious  action  to  sordid  motives?" 

"H'm,  well,  no;  I  guess  'twas  a  little  mixed," 
replied  Mr.  Crupp,  meditatively  analyzing  a  honey- 
suckle blossom.  "I  dinged  at  him,  you  preached 
at  him,  he  thought  it  over,  and  whatever  Deacon 
Jones  thinks  over  long  enough  is  sure  to  have  some 
money  in  it  in  the  end."  And  Mr.  Crupp  left  the 
minister  to  new  and  strange  meditation. 

"Squire  Tomple,"  said  Crupp  an  hour  later,  "I 
have  a  proposition.  You  know  about  old  Bunley 
as  well  as  I  do.     You  've  sold  him  goods  on  credit  to 


392       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

help  him,  and  others  have  done  the  same.  He  has 
a  notion  that  he  is  always  about  to  do  great  things, 
but  he  never  pays ;  and  yet  he  keeps  up  that  pompous 
conceit  of  his.  Now  if  you'll  stand  one  half  the 
expense  of  supporting  him  for  three  months  I'll 
stand  the  other  half,  and  we  '11  just  talk  good,  plain 
English  to  him,  let  him  understand  he's  a  pauper^ 
and  see  if  that  won't  put  him  on  his  mettle.  What 
do  you  say?" 

"Now,  look  here,  Crupp.  Temperance  is  all 
very  well,  but  I  don't  think  it's  my  business  to 
stand  part  of  the  expense  of  reforming  everybody. 
People  seem  to  think  I'm  made  of  money.  The 
parson  has  been  at  me  to  help  every  lazy  drunkard 
get  work;  and  now  Bunley,  that  I've  thrown  away 
money  on  for  so  long — it's  too  much,  that's  all!" 

"Squire,  is  n't  there  something  in  your  Bible  that 
is  n't  complimentary  to  men  who  say  to  the  needy, 
'Depart  in  peace;  be  ye  warmed  and  filled,'  and 
don't  put  their  hands  in  their  pockets  to  help  'em? 
I  tell  you  a  man  that 's  got  the  love  of  drink  fixed  in 
every  muscle  of  his  body,  and  every  drop  of  his  blood, 
is  worse  off  than  any  hungry  man  you  ever  saw. 
He's  got  to  be  helped  just  like  drowning  men  have 
to  be." 

The  squire  was  about  to  argue  the  point  further, 
but  was  suddenly  silent.  Crupp 's  eye  was  on  him, 
and  in  it  he  detected  a  softness  and  haziness  unusual 
in  the  eyes  of  men.  And  he  said,  in  a  shamefaced, 
hurried  way,  "Crupp,  you're  a  good,  square  man, 
and  I'm  proud  to  know  you,  and — all  right!" 


MR.   CRUPP  OF  BARTON  393 

Great  was  old  Bunley's  surprise  when  the  two 
men  called  on  him.  There  was  an  embarrassing 
pause.  The  squire  looked  appealingly  at  Crupp; 
Crupp  winked  encouragingly  at  the  squire;  the 
squire  coughed  feebly;  Crupp  gazed  at  a  stem  of 
timothy  he  had  in  his  hand,  as  if  he  had  never  seen 
such  a  thing  before;  the  squire  took  out  a  pocket- 
knife,  opened  it,  and  examined  it,  and  then  Crupp 
remarked  that  it  was  a  fine  day! 

"Bunley,"  finally  said  the  squire,  "you  don't 
seem  to  get  along  in  the  world." 

"That's  a  fact,  squire!  For  a  man  who  was 
born  and  bred  as  I  was,  luck  seems  to  be  strangely 
against  me." 

"Well,  we've  come  down  to  help  you  get  along." 

"To  help  you  with  money,  not  talk,"  added  Crupp. 

Bunley  looked  quickly  at  both  men  from  under 
the  inner  edge  of  his  upper  eyelid. 

"Look  here,"  said  Crupp.  "You  signed  the 
pledge  the  other  night,  and  we  propose,  between  us, 
to  show  you  that  we're  in  dead  earnest  to  help  you 
to  keep  it.  We  propose  to  support  you  for  three 
months  so  you  can  get  a  start  and  won't  have  any 
excuse  for  drinking  to  drown  trouble." 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Bunley,  springing  to  his  feet, 
"you  're — you  're —  gentlemen.  I  do  assure  you,  you 
shan't  lose  anything  by  it.     I'll  pay  it  back — " 

"But  we  don't  want  it  back;  we  give  it  to  you 
out  and  out." 

"Gentlemen,  I'm  Virginian  born!  I'm  not  a 
pauper!" 


394       FIGURES  FAMED   IN  FICTION 

"Hold  on!"  said  Crupp.  "That's  just  what  you 
are,  and  we  think  you  've  got  the  stuff  in  you  for 
something  better.     Now  what  do  you  say?" 

When  the  two  men  had  taken  leave  and,  glancing 
back,  saw  Bunley  furtively  wiping  his  eyes,  "Don't 
that  look  good?"  said  Crupp,  and  the  squire  could 
not  deny  it. 

Parson  Wedgewell's  daughter  was  the  envy  of  all 
the  Barton  girls.  She  was  not  a  beauty,  and  they 
could  n't  see,  they  said,  what  young  men  found  in 
Esther  Wedgewell  to  rave  about.  But  the  fact  was 
—  and  the  girls  might  have  seen  it  if  they  hadn't 
been  blind — that  her  splendid,  honest,  gray  eyes 
and  the  soul  that  looked  out  of  them  were  the  cause 
of  all  the  fascination.  No  one  ever  knew  the  exact 
number  of  rejected  suitors,  but  it  transpired  that 
Fred  Macdonald  was  at  last  the  fortunate  man. 
How  he  won  her  was  a  mystery;  but  it  came  out 
later  that  she  had  obtained  his  promise  to  stop  all 
drinking  after  their  marriage.  This  was  the  best 
she  could  induce  him  to  make,  but  he  was  a  young 
man  of  such  honor  that,  having  his  promise,  she 
was  sure  of  him.  To  be  sure,  Mr.  Crupp,  with  his 
usual  enterprise,  had  secured  subscriptions  for  stock 
to  the  amount  of  twenty  thousand  dollars — heading 
the  list  himself  with  one  hundred  shares — for  a  woolen 
mill  with  Fred  as  manager.  Whether  this  flattering 
ofifer  helped  him  to  make  the  promise  Esther  asked 
of  him,  nobody  knew.  It  would  not  be  strange  if  it 
should  appear  at  the  judgment  day  that  his  bride  and 
Mr.  Crupp  had  each  an  equal  share  in  his  salvation. 


MR.  CRUPP  OF  BARTON  395 

"Fred,"  said  his  young  wife  one  day,  "I'm  the 
happiest  and  proudest  woman  in  Barton.  But  you 
don't  know  how  sad  it  makes  me  when  I  think  of 
the  good  wives  who  are  not  as  happy  as  I  am. 
There's  Mrs.  Crayme,  the  captain's  wife;  she  don't 
say  anything,  but  I  know  she's  miserable.  And 
the  only  reason  I  can  see  is  that  her  husband  drinks, 
and  is  growing  worse  and  worse." 

"I  guess  you're  right,  dear.  She  didn't  begin 
her  domestic  tyranny  in  advance,  as  you  did — 
bless  you  for  it." 

"Fred,  my  dear,  I've  been  thinking  of  a  plan." 
And  then  going  to  him  with  a  kind  of  persuasion 
of  which  she  was  mistress  but  which  words  did 
not  convey,  she  said,  "It  is  this.  You  yourself  are 
the  very  man  to  reform  the  captain." 

"Oh,  Esther,  don't!  Why,  he'd  laugh  in  my 
face;  that  is,  if  he  did  n't  actually  knock  me  down. 
Reformers  need  to  be  older  men,  and  more  digni- 
fied; men  like  your  father,  for  instance." 

"Father  says  they  need  to  be  men  who  under- 
stand the  man  they  are  dealing  with,  and  you  told 
me  once  that  you  understood  the  captain  perfectly." 

"But  just  think  of  what  he  is,  dear,  a  steamboat 
captain.  Such  men  never  reform.  Why,  drinking 
is  a  part  of  their  profession.  The  only  way  I  was 
able  to  make  peace  with  the  captain  for  stopping 
drinking  myself  was  to  say  that  I  did  it  to  please 
my  wife." 

"Did  he  accept  that  as  a  good  excuse?" 

/'Yes,"  said  Fred  reluctantly,  adding,  "Now, 
25 


396        FIGURES   FAMED   IN    FICTION 

Esther,  dear,  nobody  would  like  to  see  him  with  a 
wife  as  happy  as  mine  is  better  than  I,  but — " 

"Then  just  do  something,  Fred,  won't  you? 
You  can't  imagine  how  much  happier  /  would  be 
if  I  could  meet  that  dear  woman  without  feeling 
that  I  had  to  hide  the  joy  that  it 's  so  hard  to  keep 
to  myself." 

It  all  ended  in  the  triumph  of  her  love  and  earnest- 
ness, for  Fred  promised  to  see  what  he  could  do. 
But  he  groaned  in  spirit.  He  grew  moody  and 
abstracted.  He  declared  one  morning  at  the 
breakfast  table  that  he  would  n't  be  sorry  if  the 
captain's  boat  were  to  blow  up,  and  Mrs.  Crayme 
find  her  happiness  in  widowhood.  Still,  he  would 
do  anything  in  the  world  to  please  his  wife — 

"Look  here,  Fred,  what  ails  you?"  said  the  cap- 
tain, as  Fred  sat  with  him  in  his  stateroom,  looking 
rather  pale  and  talking  rather  absently.  "I  believe 
you  must  take  something." 

"No,  thank  you;  but,  captain,  I  may  as  well  tell 
you  first  as  last.  The  main  thing  on  my  mind  is 
this;  I  want  you  to  swear  off  taking  something." 

"Well,  by  blank  cartridge!  If  that  isn't  the  best 
thing  yet — a  steamboat  captain  swearing  off  his 
whisky!  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  have  me  join 
the  church;  I  forgot  you'd  married  a  preacher's 
daughter.  Say,  Fred,  does  your  wife  let  you  drink 
tea  and  coflee?" 

"Captain!"  exclaimed  Fred  springing  to  his  feet, 
"if  you  don't  stop  slanting  at  my  wife,  I'll  knock 
you  down!" 


MR.   CRUPP  OF  BARTON  397 

"Good!  Now  you  talk  like  yourself  again.  I 
beg  your  pardon,  old  fellow,  but  it  is  too  funny. 
The  idea  of  running  a  boat  without  whisky !  You  '11 
have  to  take  a  trip  or  two  with  me,  and  be  reformed." 

"Not  any,  thank  you.  Better  take  your  wife 
along,  and  reform  yourself." 

"Look  here,  now,  young  man,  you're  cracking 
on  too  much  steam.  But,  honestly,  Fred,  I  've  kept 
a  sharp  eye  on  you  for  two  or  three  months,  and  I 
am  right  glad  you  can  let  drink  alone.  I've  seen 
times  when  I  wished  I  was  in  your  boots.  But  I 
tell  you,  steamboats  can't  be  run  without  Hquor." 

"Captain,"  said  Fred  suddenly,  "how  do  you 
suppose  your  wife  feels  about  it?" 

The  captain  looked  sober  as  he  repHed,  "Oh, 
she's  used  to  it;  she  does  n't  mind." 

"You're  the  only  person  in  town  that  thinks  so," 
was  the  reply. 

The  captain  rose,  and  began  pacing  the  floor. 

"Well,  between  old  friends,  Fred,  I  don't  think 
so  very  strongly  myself.  Hang  it !  I  wish  I  'd  been 
brought  up  a  preacher,  or  something  of  the  kind,  so 
I  could  stand  some  chance  of  being  the  right  sort 
of  family  man.  Emily  don't  like  my  drinking,  and 
once,  she  felt  so  awfully  about  it,  that  I  did  swear 
off— don't  tell  anybody,  for  God's  sake!— but  I 
had  to  do  it  by  playing  sick,  and  I  read  novels  and 
the  Bible  to  keep  me  from  thinking.  And  blue! 
Why,  a  whole  cargo  of  indigo  would  have  looked 
like  a  snowstorm  alongside  of  my  feelings  the 
second  day,  and  once  I  caught  myself  crying,  and 


398       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

I  could  n't  find  out  what  for,  either.  Then  I  made 
up  my  mind  to  get  well,  go  on  duty,  and  dodge  all 
the  fellows  I  used  to  drink  with.  But  do  you  know, 
the  first  time  I  went  near  the  bar  I  had  something 
do-wn  before  I  knew  it,  and  I  was  just  heavenly 
gay  before  morning.  I  suppose  I  'd  have  got  along 
better  if  I'd  had  somebody  to  keep  me  company, 
and  reason  with  me  like  a  schoolmaster;  but  I 
hadn't." 

"/  hadn't  reformed  then,  eh?"  said  Fred. 

"You?  Why  you're  one  of  the  very  fellows  I 
dodged !  On  one  of  those  nights  when  I  was  knock- 
ing roimd,  keeping  clear  of  the  drinking  fellows,  I 
caught  sight  of  you  aft  and  I  tell  you  I  was  in  bed 
again  in  about  a  minute,  and  was  just  a-prayin' 
you  had  n't  seen  me!" 

"Captain,"  said  Fred  suddenly,  "try  it  again, 
and  I'll  see  you  through.  I'll  crack  jokes,  tell 
stories,  fight  off  the  blues,  and  even  break  your 
neck  for  you,  seeing  it's  you,  if  it'll  keep  you 
straight." 

"Will  you,  though?  Then  you're  the  first  honest 
friend  I  ever  had  in  God's  world.  But,  Fred  — 
where '11  my  reputation  be?" 

"Reputation  be  hanged!  Lose  it  for  your  wife's 
sake.  As  for  the  boys,  tell  them  I've  bet  you  a 
himdred  that  you  can't  stay  off  your  liquor  for  a 
year,  and  that  you're  not  the  man  to  take  a  dare." 

Well,  the  matter  was  finally  settled.  Just  before 
starting  on  the  down  trip  the  captain  called  on  Dr. 
White  and  detailed  such  an  array  of  symptoms  that 


MR.   CRUPP  OF   BARTON  399 

the  doctor  grew  alarmed,  prescribed  rest  and  quiet, 
and  gave  to  Fred  a  multitude  of  directions.  During 
the  first  day  of  the  trip  there  was  no  trouble.  The 
second  evening  the  two  men  played  cards,  and  Fred 
told  all  the  stories  he  knew.  The  captain  grew 
restless,  despondent,  and  finally  much  excited, 
declaring  he  was  going  back  on  all  the  good  times 
he  ever  had. 

* '  Curse  you,  Fred,  I  wish  I  'd  made  you  back  down 
when  you  begun  this  thing." 

"Oh,  no;  better  curse  your  wife.  You've  been 
doing  it  ever  since  you  married  her." 

The  captain  sprang  at  him  like  a  tiger.  Fred 
grappled  with  him.  and  finally  threw  him  on  his 
bunk.     There  was  a  good,  stiff  tussle. 

"Captain.  I — promised — to  see  you  through  — 
and — I'm  going  to  do  it — if — I  break  your — 
neck." 

All  at  once  the  captain  gave  up.  "Fred,  you've 
whipped  me!  Oh,  confound  it,  what's  the  use!" 
And  he  lay  with  his  face  to  the  wall,  and  shook  with 
his  sobs.  "Hang  it.  Fred,  how  tjw  what's  bab\"ish 
in  men  get  the  better  of  a  full-grown  steamboat 
captain!'' 

"The  same  way  it  got  the  better  of  a  full-grown 
woolen-mill  manager  once.  I  suppose." 

"What!  Is  that  so*  "  exclaimed  the  captain, 
suddenly  turning  over  and  gazing  at  his  companion. 
"You  had  ycur  blubbering  spell?  Why.  how  are 
you,  Fred !  I  feel  as  if  I  were  just  being  introduced ! 
Did  an\'body  else  help?" 


400       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

"Yes,  a  woman,  God  bless  her!  But — you've 
got  a  wife,  too." 

"Oh,  if  I  could  only  think  about  her,  Fred,  but  I 
can't.  Whisky's  the  main  thing,  now!  Can't  put 
my  mind  on  anything  else  for  the  life  of  me." 

"Can't  think  about  her!  I'll  never  forget  the 
evening  you  were  married." 

"That  was  jolly,  wasn't  it!  I'll  bet  such  sherry 
was  never  opened  west  of  the  Alleganies  before 
or  —  " 

"Blast  your  sherry!  It's  your  wife  I  remember. 
My  stars!  but  I'll  never  forget  her!  I  don't  mind 
telling  you  that  I  wished  myself  in  your  place." 

"Did  you,  though?  Well,  they  say  she  did  shine. 
Let's  see;  she  wore  a  white  moire  antique,  I  think 
they  called  it,  and  it  cost  twenty-one  dollars  a  dozen, 
and  there  was  at  least  one  bottle  broken  in  every  — " 

"And  I  made  up  my  mind  she  was  throwing  her- 
self away  in  marrying  a  fellow  that  was  sure  to  care 
more  for  whisky  than  he  did  for  her." 

"Ease  off,  now,  Fred.  We  didn't  have  any 
whisky  there,  if  we  did  have  champagne.  But,  old 
fellow,  tell  me  about  her  yourself.  I'll  take  it  as 
a  favor." 

"All  right.  She  looked  like  a  lot  of  lilies  and 
roses,  only  you  could  n't  tell  where  one  left  off  and 
the  other  began.  Everybody  there  were  just  off 
their  heads  in  admiration  of  the  bride.  And  she 
looked  so  proud  of  you!  But  it  seems  to  me  I 
haven't  seen  her  do  it  since." 

"You  will,  though,  confound  you!     Perhaps  you 


MR.   CRUPP  OF   BARTON  401 

think  a  steamboat  captain  can't  love  his  wife  and 
can't  make  her  proud  of  him.  Get  out  o'  here! 
I  can  think  about  her  now,  I  tell  you,  and  without 
any  of  your  help,  either!"  And  the  recording 
angel  set  down  in  his  books  the  triumphant  issue; 
for  at  last  the  battle  was  won. 

The  woolen  mill  prospered,  and  some  who  had 
not  taken  any  stock  began  to  see  their  mistake. 
Father  Baguss,  one  of  the  wheel  horses  of  temper- 
ance, intimated  in  a  roundabout  way  that  he  was 
willing  to  buy  if  any  one  had  shares  to  sell. 

" I  '11  sell  you  some  of  mine,"  said  Crupp,  "if  you'll 
go  into  temperance  with  all  your  might." 

The  man  was  struck  dumb  for  a  moment,  but  soon 
found  his  tongue.  "Go  into  temperance!  Did 
anybody  ever  hear  the  like  of  that!  I,  that's 
belonged  to  the  Good  Templars  all  my  life,  that's 
voted  for  the  Maine  Liquor  Law,  that's  done  more 
to  provide  temperance  lectures  than  any  other 
man  — I  told  to  go  into  temperance ! ' ' 

"That  was  all  very  well,  Father  Baguss,  but  it 
was  n't  going  into  temperance.  Talk  is  one  thing 
and  work  is  another.  Did  you  ever,  in  all  your  life, 
go  to  work  and  buy  a  man  away  from  his  liquor? 
There's  your  neighbor,  old  Tapplemine,  and  his 
family.     What  have  you  done  for  them?" 

"A  lot  of  poor  white  trash,  that's  what  they  are. 
They're  no  good.  They  drink,  they  all  drink;  and 
who  under  the  sun  can  stop  'em?" 

"Well,  Mr.  Baguss,  I  can  tell  you  this  much;  a 
good,   honest,   religious   rum-hating   neighbor   who 

26 


402       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

looks  at  'em  so  savagely  and  lets  'em  alone  so  hard 
that  they'd  take  pains  to  get  drunk — he  ain't 
going  to  stop  'em.  Tell  me,  did  you  ever  in  all  your 
life  try  to  help  'em?  Did  you  ever  do  one  blessed 
thing  to  show  'em  that  you  would  like  to  take  hold 
and  lift  a  little?  Mind,  I'm  only  asking  these 
questions;  3^ou're   not   obliged   to   answer    'em." 

As  Crupp  turned  and  went  his  way,  Baguss 
followed  him.  "I  say,  Crupp,  I'll  try  'em  somehow 
or  other,  though  how  it'll  be  I  can't  tell;  an'  I 
don't  care  if  you  do  let  me  have  about  five  shares  of 
that  mill  stock.  I  suppose  you  won't  want  more 
than  you  paid  for  it." 

"Tapplemine,"  said  Baguss  the  next  day,  "I've 
come  over  to  see  if  I  could  do  anything  to  help  you 
into  better  habits.  You  don't  amount  to  a  row  of 
pins  as  things  are  now.  You've  got  a  small  farm; 
why  don't  you  work  it,  and  give  up  drinking?" 

"Why  don't  I  work  it?  Well,  'cause  I  hain't  got 
any  plow  nor  any  harrow,  nor  but  one  hoss,  nor 
rails  enough  to  keep  out  cattle,  nor  seed  corn,  nor 
wheat,  nor  money  to  buy  it  with.  Why  don't  I 
give  up  drinkin'?  'Cause  drinkin'  makes  me  feel 
good  in  the  face  of  it  all.  You  fellers  that  drink  on 
the  sly— " 

"What!     I  never  touched  a  drop  in  all  my  life!" 

* '  That 's  right !  Stick  to  it !  There 's  some  that  '11 
believe  that  yarn.  But  as  I  was  a-sayin',  folks 
that  drinks  on  the  sly — I  don't  see  why  they  should 
be  so  hard  on  them  as  does  it  fair  and  square." 


MR.   CRUPP  OF  BARTON  403 

Father  Baguss  groaned  in  spirit.  Plows  and 
prayers  and  harrows  and  seed  corn  and  the  seed 
sown  by  the  wayside  and  good  whisky — all  mixed 
themselves  in  his  mind  in  great  confusion.  But 
he  stood  to  his  task  manfully. 

"Look  here,  Tapplemine,  I'll  lend  you  seed  and  a 
plow  and  a  team  and  a  harrow  and  a  hoe — that  is, 
I'll  hire  'em  to  you  and  agree  to  buy  your  crop  at 
the  rulin'  price  and  pay  you  the  difference  in  cash." 

"Wall,  that  sounds  somethin'  like,"  said  the  other, 
although  evidently  not  overjoyed  at  the  prospect. 
And  when  his  neighbor  had  departed  he  sauntered 
into  the  cabin,  wondering  how  much  of  the  promised 
seed  com  and  wheat  he  could  smuggle  into  town 
and  trade  for  whisky.  But  he  was  greatly  surprised 
when  his  poor  wife,  who  had  been  listening  at  a 
broken  window,  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck, 
exclaiming,  "Now,  father,  we  can  be  respectable, 
can't  we?  The  chance  has  been  a  long  time  acomin', 
but  we  've  got  it  now ! " 

And  as  he  sat  the  rest  of  the  day  at  the  hearth- 
stone, nursing  his  knee,  the  good  woman  not 
only  coaxed  her  lord  into  resolving  to  be  respect- 
able, but  allowed  that  gentleman  to  persuade  him- 
self that  he  had  formed  the  resolution  of  his  own 
accord. 

How  Baguss,  having  put  his  hand  to  the  plow, 
both  literally  and  figuratively,  furnished  a  team  to 
break  ground,  and  not  only  seed  corn  but  some  of 
the  labor  of  planting;  and  how  Tapplemine,  between 
unaccustomed  labor  and  enforced  abstinence,   fell 


404       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

sick  and  required  nursing,  we  do  not  pause  to  tell. 
Baguss  found  himself,  to  his  own  consternation, 
spending  money  without  knowing  what  he  was  to 
get  for  it. 

One  day,  about  to  enter  the  cabin,  he  heard  the 
word  "whisky,"  and  was  fain  to  listen  at  the  door. 
Tapplemine  was  pleading  with  his  wife  for  just  a 
little  whisky,  and  she,  with  all  the  wit  at  her  poor 
command,  implored  him  to  be  again  the  man  he  was 
when  she  married  him  twenty  years  before.  ' '  Please 
do,  for  the  sake  of  the  children!"  she  cried.  And 
the  ne'er-do-well  at  last  swore  a  great  oath  that  not 
another  drop  would  he  touch  if  he  died  for  it.  Ba- 
guss stole  away,  muttering  to  himself,  "Huh! 
After  all  I've  done  for  him,  I  can't  even  say  to 
myself  that  /  saved  him." 

"Too  bad  about  Wainwright,  isn't  it?"  said  the 
postmaster  to  a  group  who  were  waiting  for  the  mail. 

"What's  that?"  asked  half  a  dozen  at  once. 

"Why,  he's  been  pretty  high  on  his  drinkin'  for 
two  or  three  days,  and  now  they  say  he 's  got  snakes 
in  his  boots  and  made  a  break  for  Louisville.  Any- 
how, he  started  on  foot  two  hours  ago  for  Brown's 
Landing,  to  catch  the  steamboat.  His  wife  is  half 
wild  about  it,  but  here's  nothing  she  can  do." 

"I  saw  him  coming  down  the  walk,"  observed 
Squire  Tomple.  ' '  I  don't  like  to  get  into  a  row  with 
men  in  that  fix,  and  so  I  just  stepped  across  the 
street." 

"Of  course  there  was  nothing  else  to  be  done," 


MR.   CRUPP  OF   BARTON  405 

said  Crupp,  who  apparently  had  been  carefully 
reading  a  posted  notice  of  some  kind. 

Not  twenty  minutes  later,  Parson  Wedgewell  was 
seen  walking  somewhat  rapidly  on  the  river  road. 

"  'Pears  to  me,  parsons  are  out  walkin'  this 
mornin',"  said  one  old  woman  to  her  neighbor 
across  the  garden.  "I  saw  Brother  Wedgewell  go 
past  a  while  ago,  and  now  there  goes  Brother  Brown. 
I  thought  he  was  agoin'  to  call,  but  he  only  bowed 
awful  solemn,  and  kep'  right  on." 

When  Brother  Brown  had  reached  the  river  he 
spied  a  canoe,  and  straightway  untied  it  and  took 
the  paddle. 

"Hello,  there!  What  are  you  doin'  with  my  dug- 
out?" shouted  a  man  who  was  fishing  near  by. 

"The  Lord  hath  need  of  it ! "  roared  the  old  divine, 
picking  up  the  paddle. 

' '  Well,  I  '11  be  blanked, ' '  exclaimed  the  man, ' '  if  that 
ain't  the  coolest !  The  Lord  '11  get  a  duckin'  I  reckon, 
for  that 's  the  wobbliest  canoe.  I  don't  know,  though ; 
the  old  fellow  paddles  as  if  he  were  used  to  it." 

About  the  same  time  Tom  Adams  ventured  to 
impress  the  deacon's  brickyard  team  into  a  good 
cause,  and  went  driving  down  the  river  road. 

"I  orter  to  be  able  to  ketch  him,  but  what  in 
thunder  am  I  to  say  to  him?  Like  enough  he'll 
knock  me  down.  Hold  on !  I  can  knock  him  down 
and  put  him  right  in  the  wagon  and  bring  him  back, 
and  the  joltin'  would  bring  him  to,  an'  clear  his  head. 
But  what  a  redick'lus  wild-goose  chase  it  does  look 
like!" 


4o6       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

Meanwhile,  Parson  Wcdgewell  had  been  walking 
and  praying;  "Father  in  Heaven,  verily  the  sheep 
is  astray!  O  thou  who  didst  say  that  the  race  is 
not  to  the  swift,  nor  the  battle  to  the  strong,  make 
thou  the  feeble  power  of  man  to  triumph  over  the 
enemy!"  He  was  far  beyond  the  limits  of  his 
parish,  and  the  region  was  strange  to  him.  Coming 
to  a  fork  in  the  roads  he  was  utterly  at  a  loss  which 
road  to  take.  In  a  fervor  of  excitement  he  fell  upon 
his  knees,  exclaiming,  "The  hosts  of  hell  are  pressing 
hard,  O  Lord.  O  thou  who  didst  guide  thy  people 
of  old,  guide  thy  servant  this  day!"  And  rising, 
he  went  down  the  left-hand  road  at  a  lively  run  a 
moment  after  Tom  Adams,  a  long  way  in  the  rear, 
had  shaded  his  eyes,  exclaiming,  "Blamed  if  there 
ain't  a  fellow  a-praying  right  in  the  middle  of  the 
road!  If  he  wants  anything  that  bad,  I  hope  he'll 
get  it.     Go  'long,  ponies,  let's  see  who  he  is." 

Meanwhile  Fred  Macdonald  was  galloping  along 
the  opposite  river  bank,  and  Crupp  was  quietly 
waiting  in  his  boat  around  the  bend  in  the  river  to 
board  the  steamboat  when  she  came  down.  The 
outcome  of  it  all  was  that  the  two  parsons,  arriving 
at  the  same  moment,  each  took  the  drimken  fellow 
by  the  arm  on  either  side,  and  the  three  men  stood 
a  moment,  not  knowing  what  to  say;  while  Tom 
Adams,  arriving  in  furious  haste,  exclaimed,  "Oh, 
Mr.  Wainright !  Mrs.  Wainright  is  particular  anx- 
ious to  see  you  for  something,  I  don't  know  what, 
and  I  had  n't  time  to  get  any  carriage,  but  only  the 
brickyard  wagon ! ' ' 


MR.   CRUPP  OF   BARTON  407 

"There,"  said  Tom  to  himself,  "that's  the  biggest 
yarn  I  ever  did  tell !  I  knew  I  should  n't  know 
what  to  say." 

The  poor  fellow  made  no  objection  to  being  taken 
home,  the  rescuers  insisted  on  bearing  him  com- 
pany, and  the  vehicle  with  its  occupants  was  by 
all  odds  the  most  remarkable  that  ever  drove  into 
the  town  of  Barton. 

At  the  end  of  a  year  there  was  another  temperance 
meeting  in  the  town  hall,  and  Mr,  Crupp  presented 
a  brief  report  of  the  year's  work.  "Signatures  to 
the  pledge  one  year  ago,  627.  Signatures  of  persons 
who  were  in  the  habit  of  drinking,  231.  Number 
of  broken  pledges,  160.  Number  reclaimed  by 
special,  personal  effort,  46.  Amount  subscribed  in 
this  work,  and  without  hope  of  pecuniary  gain, 
$590.  Of  this  amount  six  sevenths  came  from  five 
persons,  representing  one  fiftieth  part  of  the  taxable 
property    of   the   township." 

The  quiet  that  prevailed  as  Mr.  Crupp  took  his 
seat  was,  considered  as  quiet,  simply  faultless. 
While  the  audience  were  thus  apparently  deep  in 
meditation,  old  Bunley  dropped  a  mellow  cough, 
and  stepped  to  the  front. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  he,  "it's  the  style 
in  this  town  to  kick  a  man  when  he's  down,  and 
then  to  trample  on  him.  I  know  one  man  that's 
been  there,  and  knows  all  about  it.  'T  was  his  own 
fault  he  got  *here,  and  there  were  plenty  who  told 
him  he  ought  to  get  up.     But  how  kicking  and 


4o8       FIGURES   FAMED   IN   FICTION 

trampling  were  to  help  him  do  it  he  never  could  see ; 
and  he  made  up  his  mind  that  folks  did  as  they  did 
simply  because  it  suited  them.  So  he 's  been  hating 
the  whole  town  full  for  years.  One  day  a  couple 
of  gentlemen  —  I  won't  mention  names — came 
along  and  gave  the  poor  fellow  a  helping  hand,  and 
gave  him  the  first  chance  he 's  had  in  years  to  believe 
in  human  nature  at  all.  And  all  the  time  everybody 
else  around  him  was  acting  in  the  way  this  same 
fellow  would  have  acted  himself  if  he  had  wanted 
to  play  devil.  The  same  couple  of  gentlemen  went 
for  a  good  many  other  people,  and  acted  in  a  way 
that  you  read  about  in  novels  and  the  Bible,  but 
mighty  seldom  see  in  town.  And  those  fellows 
believe  in  those  two  gentlemen,  now,  but  they  hate 
all  the  rest  of  you  like  poison.  I  don't  suppose  you 
like  it,  but  truth  is  truth." 

Several  persons  got  up  and  went  out,  with  very 
red  faces;  but  Fred  Macdonald  stood  up  in  the 
audience  and  clapped  his  hands.  In  the  midst  of 
the  uproar.  Father  Baguss  got  upon  his  feet. 

"Brethren  and  sisters,"  said  he,  "it  occurs  to  me 
to  say  this  one  thing,  that  hollerin'  an'  singin' 
makes  a  hypocrite  of  a  man  if  he  don't  open  his 
pocketbook.  If  you  don't  believe  it,  remember  me. 
It  anybody  liked  his  own  more'n  I  did,  he's  a  curios- 
ity. The  hardest  case  I  ever  got  acquainted  with 
was  me,  Zedekiah  Baguss,  when  I  could  n't  dodge 
it  any  longer  that  I  ought  to  spend  money  for  a 
feller  critter.  And,  brethren  and  sisters,  I  have  this 
exhortation;  don't  try  to  do  any  more  work  in  the 


MR.   CRUPP  OF  BARTON  409 

cause  of  temperance  until  you  practice  a  little  self- 
examination  in  the  matter  of  cash." 

Confessions  followed  from  one  and  another  that 
were  good  for  the  soul — the  souls,  that  is — of  the 
speakers.  And  the  conclusion  of  the  whole  matter 
which  Mr.  Crupp  thus  forced  upon  the  unwilling 
town  of  Barton  was  this,  namely,  if  the  cause  of 
temperance  is  to  prosper,  the  reform  must  begin 
with  those  who  never  drink. 


